Nova

You drive me crazy. God, just look at you, smug smile, callous grin,
offhand comment. Practiced for hours, perfected that shining hair toss,
stared in the mirror waiting for someone to notice how perfect you
are.

But you know it. We both know it. You can smile and shine and dazzle as
much as you want. I'll still be here, crouching in the corner, staying
behind until the lights have gone out. Whispering in your ear 'you're
never enough'.

I wonder why I do it. Fun? But it's torture to me as well, don't think
I enjoy having to do this, sit and watch and wait and crawl and taunt
and tease until you scream. Having to stay here, behind the scenes,
hiding myself. It must be hard for you, looking over your shoulder,
never seeing me except as a flicker in the corner of your
contact-lensed eye.

It was never meant to be like this. I thought we were a team. We always
worked well, I can close my eyes and see us sitting together, pouring
over emotional dilemmas, calming our souls with Earl Grey and stolen
chocolate digestives. You told me about your father. Normal, middle
class, professional. No abuse, no skeletons in the closet, no hiding
behind mummy's skirt and counting the minutes until the beating began.
I can see it before me, etched into my mind, our imperfections ironed
out by time, the wrinkles and scars and dirty little habits screened by
a fading memory.

I remember how intimate we were. Nothing excluded, nothing repressed,
no secrets blushing behind our calorie counting normality. I wasn't a
devil, it was all your own decision. I just gave you a choice, after
all, what did you have to lose? It's only a biscuit, only a chocolate,
only a man. Because, inevitably, that's what it all turned out as, in
the end.

I won't say I made a mistake. I can't, I won't, I shan't admit it. You
knew what you were doing, perhaps I pushed you a little but from your
reaction you'd think I'd held you down and let him rape you. It's not
like you were a virgin, not like you were pure and sanctified and
perfect. You can let yourself believe that, but deep down you knew you
were a slut from the moment Jack asked to see your bra in year 6. You
enjoyed it, you loved it, you wanted him to ask again and again so you
could play coyly with your hair before you said yes. I never made you
do anything, I never forced you into anything you didn't already want
to do. It's your fault, you did it yourself, you deserved what came,
you deserved his stares and phone calls and handcuffs, walking across a
condom tightrope that you couldn't cope with, because you were never
enough, you could never hold on, you could never scream yes or no or
even maybe, you just sat on the fence until it crumbled under you until
you fell from grace and into Dante's imagination. You whore.

And I'm still here, picking up the pieces. You can try and get back
into life, fit into your old clothes and personality, but I'm still
here. Crouching, silently, in the corner, just waiting for my
moment.