Chimera.

Am prone to fits of melancholy, brought on by injustices of my own making. Wish I weren't so Mary, Mary, always saying no when I want yes. Reading dismissive into that which has nothing to do with me. Feeling slighted when I am neglected.

Always ready to be the martyr, sacrificing self to save objects of my misplaced love. Wish I weren't so quick to jump on the pyre, ineffectively aping nimble Jack. Counting four and twenty blackbirds in the bush. Greening the grass everywhere except my own yard.

BUT.

Miss Muffet I am not. For all my shortcomings, am not so frightened by life's creepy crawlies. More Bo Peep, I think, sending my sheep into the great beyond. Seeing the world with continually new eyes. Searching for a way back home.

Was not built for pumpkin shells, being kept, whether well or ill, of little interest. My lived-in shoes are worn from the wandering, my cupboards bare of juicy bones. But I do not need to pass my time in corners for plums. No need for pies or piemen. Life is my story book, my fairy tale; I can make my own happily ever afters.