Pressed Glass
Do not weep for me. You have no right to mourn.
This is bad; bad all around, and you just make it worse by staring at the figure and face of an image that carries no substance, warmth or caring for you. I am a wax figure, burning in your mind. This is my mask, my cover, the cauterization that fixes my walking wound. So you expect it to express some sense of caring or devotion.
We junked the relationship last year, when it was good and decent and worthy of shedding a few tears over. Naturally, you came crawling back to me; as is the Order Of All Things. You cannot hack it on your own, so you want to suck my warmth, to feed like a baby on my light.
But I cannot sustain; my milk is poisoned, dry, dusty, and you too will soon turn to marble and die from it should you drink long.
You put the worm to me, allowed it to bite and allowed the flow of these pains to take me.
So you must do me a favor; lie me on the ground, between my aunt and my uncle on the layers of snow, like a salad plate between two forks pointing right and left and left and right.
And so you may burrow back into Hunter's arms, your work done. Allielua. The bitch is dead, long live the shell, yourself.
Shielding your eyes from my resting place, pretending that it's just a sucking hole in the rich earth. The false tear of a ravenous eye, accepting succor you do not deserve, have not earned.
Even as you take your condolences, I rise, pulled by gravity to the surface, like the bile in your throat, the fingers like claws around a bottle holding the ultimate truth.
Grasping and greedy, you commit it to the ground, like geode glittering in a worthless shell.
Yet I shatter the barrier of worthless trappings, like pressed glass roses falling to the floor, a vase loosed from the gravity and tumbling, end over end over end.
Say my name, won't you? What it was, was it....
Stephanie?