Me, Ariel. Poem by esther pearlman

and i can't help but think why would you give me these books
the books i read in the grass field while you braid ribbons into my hair
my empress, you said
your hair is like flaming embers
the color of winter leaves on a maple
read that poem child
read that book
your fate is written in those pages
pages written by a woman who suffered the same fate as you

men touching her bones her red hair her velvet dresses
why does it have to be me
why do i have to be ariel
why do i have to be the girl who wears rings and blows on candles and rises from ash
why do i have to feel their fingers their words
why do i have to die over and over and over like some disgraced art piece
i am merely a child
and i will always be one for you are the one who stole my cherries and peaches and replaced them with bitter red wine