She

Notes from my journal: 23/11/2020

Her eyes reflect nothing; they are hollow, flat, functional.

No windows to the soul exist here—no soul, only an endless recursion of her own image, a mirror reflecting upon another mirror without end.

A grimace stretches tight over glinting teeth, a promise that she’s trustworthy, and the problem lies with you.

You’re the one who needs a long, hard look in the mirror—but not hers. In her mirror, there’s space for only one face.

Faces

She draws a cigarette from the gold packet and flicks her lighter, the flame close enough for you to flinch.

She laughs at the involuntary reaction, a reaction justified by the way the light often casts horrific shadows across her face, revealing a monstrous true visage beneath the flickering play of light and dark.

She is cruel.

Withholds love, her gaze, her thoughts,

To punish you for seeing too clearly.

Relentless, she won’t ease up or give in, not for a moment.

She steps back, looks away, leaving you to drown in yearning.

“Come and catch me, I might love you,” she taunts.

But you’ve learnt. There’s no love there,

No matter how you contort and strive to match her desires.

She craves an ever-changing shape, one you can never fill or grasp.

She despises you almost as much as she loathes herself.

And that‘s a lot.