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.
