How did I get here?
The paparazzi taking photographs of my cold, lifeless body.
How beautiful I once looked;
A contrast to the bloody mess I was
When my life ended.

My beauty was mentioned only in passing
Before I died.
They concentrated on how thin I looked.
Or on my seductive eyes.

How things changed the moment my heart stopped.
In just one moment.

Perhaps the way they hail me is driven by their guilt?
Guilt for hounding me:
Writing only about
The affairs,
The anorexia,
The bulimia
The fact I was not well-received by my mother-in-law.

Perhaps not.

I watch the world now,
Ten years after my body was removed from that French motorway
What has changed?

My boys have grown into men,
And now they are hounded instead of me.
William and his Kate,
Harry and Iraq,
The legacy I left them.