you are a writer and you want to tell me a story but you
are the worst kind of writer because you're too busy
scribing as you go to feel your heels catch the air.
you are a tailor walking down the street
and unpicking seams just to prove you know how.
i thought you were writing a romance,
until i noticed that you were writing a tragedy.
or maybe just a horror.
i thought i was the vampire in your
universe, i thought you'd take your inky fingers
and put me down as interesting and sharp
carve me out of cobwebs and silently
fall in love with me
i thought you were writing about me. well,
it's too late now. i'm writing about me, and i'm writing
everything i can about me and about us. this is
my horror story, this is my doomed romance, and i
don't want to be the wispy starving thing i was around you,
i don't want to flex my fingers and know that
each join could crumble any second now. no, this is my story,
and i'll be my own monster.
i'm thinking harpy.
i'm thinking gorgon.
i'm thinking that i'm going to tear that pen out of your hands
and dig the quill into my hand so i can wear the tip like claws.
i'm thinking a lot of things and none of them are about you.
do i want feathers? i have half a quill left over, i could coat my arms
and my shoulders, and fly -
no. wings were your domain, wings were your stories, angels and
demons and so many broken machine parts marching to your tune, like
a silhouetted army -- no. if i am to be a monster i will be a monster
that is never hungry. that is never broken. i will be a creature without
ash-joints. i will tear your wings away with my teeth and spit them out.
you were a writer but so am i - and i am far, far better than you.
you can be the pensmith, the runner, the lover lost and normal.
you can walk in the daylight and be mundane.
i will be your gorgon, and i will have a mouth at the end of every hair
and not one of them will be open with wanting you. i will not be hungry
for you. close your book and close your eyes, because i see who you are now.
and you are nothing but stone.