The Worst in the World.

     I don’t think I ever told you what it meant, the eyes across the half-lit room.  Not what you thought, not what I let it mean.  For I am the worst in the world.

     Names exchanged and trust hard-won, and a joy in madness’ grasp.  You pinned me down, held me up, taught me the art of a bewildered smile. This must be what it is, this must be what fables tell of, and “forever” was fleetingly there.  But somehow, no matter what expertise you employed, I remained stoic, in control of what I was.  You were not what I needed to fly free.  For I am the worst in the world.

     Plans were made, and new bonds formed.  I was in a new state with you, revolving in your spheres and tethered to your orbit.  I forgot what I wanted and I focused on what you needed and that seemed to be a bright, brilliant purpose.  But once someone else cast a shadow over the house I had built, I saw the cracks in the funhouse mirror, the flickering of the lightbulb, and I realised with a crash and a stab and an oh god no that I wasn’t actually as happy as I had assumed myself to be.

So I spoke the words.

Silence.

One breath, two.

And then you cried.

I had bought a giant to his knees.

For I am the worst in the world.