Lady Macbeth May 2026

Here is my candle. Here is my gown. Here is the stain that will not wash out. And here is the end, approaching like a gentle sleep—or like a blade. I no longer know the difference.

Give me the light. Give me the dark. Give me back the woman I killed to become this hollow, walking ghost. Lady Macbeth

What do I see? Not a queen. Not a monster. Just a woman who loved her husband so much she unlearned every soft thing she was born with. And for what? He is a tyrant now, and he does not even look at me. He sends for the doctor, not for his wife. He plans his battles, not our future. I have become a footnote in my own catastrophe. Here is my candle