She thought she’d forgotton. Thought she’d ripped up all those cliché letters, teenage declarations of immortal love. Thrown away the meaningless souvenirs binding her to the past. Burnt that very first autumn leaf they found, torn out the page with your solution to Pythagoras Theorum. Trained herself to forget, to forgive, to move on. She truly thought she’d succeeded.

And then ‘It’ came along. Your very own walking, talking, replica.

Shy, innocent wonder. Almost amusing in its politeness, wisdom concealed by half-lidded eyes. Too easily tempted by childish frivolities, a chance to indulge in what they deemed ‘sin’. So very eager to please, puppy-like in adoration, lapping up every word like a starving cat after curdled milk. Contradicting naivety in a shell meant to be broken by the harsh realities of spite.

Perfect. Out-of-bounds. Forbidden.

Foolish heart o’ hers. The sunlight dancing across golden skin, merry laughter the tinkling of bells, indescribable feelings coiling so deep down inside; addling the brain. Words falling unbidden from her lips, a waterfall of pent-up hurt, stripping her of any dignity and self-sufficiency. All for ‘It’ to see.

Unconcealed horror as tears pool in her eyes, a harsh indrawn breath as reality hits home. Turning to run, scrabbling blindly at invisible hands holding her fast, anchoring her to the ground. Coffee lying discarded at leather-clad feet, soaking into lush grass. Choked sobs, smudged eyeliner, a break down.

The final blow. No turning back now.

A whispered apology, the warmth of a reassuring grip, silk handkerchief grazing her cheek. A soft kiss, a tight hug, more useless revelations of the mind. Brushing aside raven locks, a small smile of acceptance spreading across her face. Staggering to her feet, retrieving lukewarm caffeine from the dewy lawn. Insecurities masked, hidden away.

Mission accomplished.

Tottering unsteadily up the driveway, fumbling for that elusive set of keys. Drunken chuckling so sweet to the ear, stolen touches, fleeting moments of passion. Pausing for a second, hands resting on the cold metal of a doorknob, tentative smiles abound. She leans forward ever so slightly, brushes lips against a mop of black hair, then slips into the house.

Now ‘It’ is gone. Blessed relief.

Tears from before coursing down the sharp planes of her face. Ruining the ever-present layer of powder and rouge. Manicured nails glinting red in the filtered moonlight of the window, digging mercilessly into flawless skin. The barrier of flesh breaking at the touch of metal, crimson blood oozing sluggishly from yet another excruciating line. A single, damning thought before welcome oblivion.

I love her.

I am a glass child, I am Destiny’s regrets.
I will hear their voices this night
Her little whispers, “Love me, love me”

Monster.

She battered her tiny fists to feel something
The demons lay here, looking through the window
I wondered at her crimson rage

Monster.

The night I caged her. Bruised her, broke her
I struggled closer, darkness stole her
Violet wrists and silent pain

Monster.

Turn the sheets down, murder ears with pillowlace
There’s bathtubs full of blowflies
Bathe in kerosene, the word tattooed in my veins

Monster.

I moved today. Packed up my scant possessions, flung them haphazardly into a raggedy suitcase. Took to the hills, lost myself in the nature I so despise, armed for warfare. Hastily copied manuscripts scrunched in my pockets, like the withering roses left by your grave; aged and meaningless, the weathered yellow of tarnished gold.

Dreamt of frangipani-embossed tea cosies, glaringly pink futons, neon green banisters. Of Romeo & Juliet, two-minute noodles, bruised egos. Trekked on day after day, time blending into chilling nightmares, ravenous hunger, unwarranted rage – so very human reactions. Not good enough. Weak. Stop feeling, crying, hoping, wishing. Grow up.

There is no rescue from this self-imposed Hell; so why have you come? I am content in my imperfections, unkempt and riddled with sickness, free. Why do you speak of it with such disdain? Preach of love, of the devil, of redemption. Empty words, empty lies, monster. Pick apart your logic, little girl, crack the flaws with the hammer of Death, lay your soul bare for the scrunity of the heavens. Perfect, pretty, little girl.

Let the ones above trial you before the Court of Regrets – your perfect, pretty lifestory. They will toss your steaming heart to the dogs, rend your carcass in two, as they did with mine. Drink of life’s crimson wine; pain makes the blood sing deliciously. Are you scared now, little girl? Ready to run, little girl?

Holy water, garlic, stakes. Dracula, werewolves, Dementors. Childhood bedtime stories to placate the morbid curiousity of impertinent toddlers. Does the vampire die, mummy? Will he bleed? Will the werewolf bleed? Of course he will bleed, foolish girl. He will bleed as a mortal bleeds, as you & I bleed. With more than a little pain, remorse & frustration. Do you want a demonstration, my foolish daughter?

Ah, now you back away, brandishing a pocketknife like your life depends on it. The world tilts, weaves, bucks, and colours blinded my feeble vision. Swamping me in a ridiculous blend of garish shades fit for a court jester, or one silly enough to put stock in beliefs & feelings. Like your mother, foolish daughter. Smart, beautiful, weak woman that she was.

Everything heaves as I dredge up memories of a guileless past, flinging me facedown in the loam not too far from the grave I know so well. Gnarled, wizened fingers snatching at thin air, rotting jaw snapping shut inches from the stone slab. Maybe you are right, pretty girl. Maybe I am the monster. Guilty as charged, little missy; so what? All I want, all I want, is for you to come closer…

Come closer, mummy’s girl, come closer…

I’m so hungry