A Woman of Many Words
I did this. I made this happen. Now. Then. Whenenver.
I gave him words, wrote the script and placed the scene. And I count every tear that falls from my eye, measuring his worth millilitre by millilitre by millilitre.
This skin. This skin. This skin.
This litany of soft deception.
This skin is not me, not tonight. Not this
pale silken lie: it's just another
pretty dress I have to wear to hide the ugliness.
I tear, tear, tear at it.
Ripping. It breaks, words pour out.
Is this beauty? I tear skin deep.
I need this. As much as I need him. More. I need the pain. I need to see the skull beneath the skin, feel blood pulse in my fingers.
Else, how else do I know I'm alive?
Because I see myself reflected back at me?
That isn't me. This pretty skin isn't me.
Because he tells me?
He doesn't know me.
He does. I don't.
But I did this, and he doesn't know how to
make it stop. And I do. Do I?
