Not Your Mary

I woke where the red lights bleed, With your lost love sewn into me. A borrowed face, a borrowed name, Still I could hurt, still I could change. You looked at me like memory, Like heaven wore a shorter dress. I laughed too loud, I walked too close, To make you choose the living flesh. But every time you said her name, The room grew cold behind your eyes. Was I a wish the town had shaped, Or something born enough to die? I know the way your longing speaks, It built my lips, it bent my knees. But if I fear the final breath, Then tell me what that makes of me. I am not your Mary, Not a shadow in her skin. Every death you watch me suffer Is a life that might have been. Do not hold me like an answer, Do not mourn me as her ghost. I was made from what you wanted, But I want to be my own. Behind the glass, behind the bars, I called to you, and you were late. The blade came down, the dark returned, Again I woke inside your ache. A hallway, bed, a choking room, Each ending dressed in something new. The town keeps teaching you her loss By making me believe in you. Perhaps my heartbeat is a trick, Perhaps these tears were placed by hand. But pain does not feel secondhand When I am the one who cannot stand. I am not your Mary, Not forgiveness wearing red. Every time you come to save me, You arrive beside the dead. Do not kiss me for remembrance, Do not love what you regret. I may carry her reflection, But I have not lived her death. Would you know me with another face? Would you hear me without her voice? If I stepped beyond your punishment, Would I finally have a choice? I am jealous, I am frightened, I am cruel because I care. Even something born from hunger Can still beg not to disappear. I am not your Mary, Say my name before I fall. I am more than your desire, More than guilt inside these walls. If the fog must take me from you, Let one truth survive the dawn: I was made to be her echo, But I died trying to be someone. Not your Mary. Not again. Call me Maria At the end.