WHO PUT BELLA IN THE WYCH ELM?
- Aug 1
- 1 min read
By Alice Evemy
How I died, you’ll never know.
An elm became my coffin.
My remains, now a dining hall.
A buffet, long forgotten.
I hosted my guests graciously,
The crawlies feasted like kings.
Sunken eyes, cleanly plucked,
Dark hair stolen by beaks.
Teeth remained, but were no use
In finding my identity.
For eighteen moons, I lay untouched.
At last, finally some peace.
The cage cinched my ribs,
A corset of bark, laced too tight,
The figure I dreamed was finally found.
Pity, it won’t be admired.
Lads found me. Swore to silence.
Bravely tested my skull with sticks.
Their oath was broken.
Headlines followed.
My fate recorded in ink.
My true name never fit their story,
Instead they called me Bella.
Assumed I pleasured men for money,
The truth, it never mattered.
My legacy scrawled on a wall.
“Who put Bella in the wych elm?”
They never wanted to find out.