Beetle-Black (Wicked Games)

Siobhan’s Letter

You, it will concern.

If it is not one, it’s another.
My father, with his low laugh and barbed words; the wandering hands of my friend; the neighbour who babysat my brother and tried to put his hand on my leg, wouldn’t let me leave my room, forcing me to hide in my parent’s room with the baby.

Always those who will seek to control. My own crossed wires, love and lust, fight or flight, weary me.

There are good people. There are those I can trust. There are some I would do anything for, except relinquish my hard-earned freedom.

I ask only to walk, to dance untethered. My mind is a hive, a beetle’s back, and I am vicious tonight. I would murder the world with a look. Were it in my power, I would have you here, to fuck until your mind and heart broke.

But I leave alone. Walk away, back off, because to do these things would bring only more harm, as I perceive it. My mind shutters down, because there is no other way to cope.

Clarity?
I am the one who is single.
Form?
You knew my nature from the start.
Answer?
You gave it, when you told me to walk on. And I am taking the steps, and your chastising rankles, because I won’t take such words from a hypocrite. I didn’t ask for this pain, it just came over me. And it is precious, in the same way as lifeblood, or a child’s first smile.

I laugh with a cat’s scorn, at this ridiculous situation of love, and loss that won’t end. Over and again, the same message, the record-jump. I am the one who loses out.
I am the one left behind.

And this selfishness aside, there are those who will lose far more than me. I have them in mind, too, whether I wish it or not. I am not entirely unfeeling.

So forgive me these words, falling as stones from my mouth. Truth is never pretty. Neither is love.
It is raw, and unrelenting, and unforgiving in who it touches.

One sun. The rest are stars only.

On my filthy little feet, I traipse heedlessly through people’s lives, causing more mayhem than I ever mean to; leaving an indelible mark behind.

N.B: My mouth curls with the feral grin of one who gives and expects little mercy, as I write all this.
Anger dissipates with words. I have no more for now. So tired.

But empathy is noted.
I was never meant to be the retiring type; the same could be said of others.

Fin.

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