So imagine theres a girl, and maybe another girl, and even more maybe, something like a monster inbetween them.
Which one are you?
Im sorry. Im sorry about screaming in the kitchen, I'm sorry about being quiet at the funeral. I'm sorry about almost spilling my blood on the tile, and yours in the bedroom.
Imagine an apartment, or maybe a house, it doesn't matter. Wait- yes it does. Nothing matters unless theres an audience.
Maybe you're the neighbor downstairs, twisting the phone cord at three in the morning, the nine and the one right under your fingertips, thinking- are they laughing? Surely they're laughing, those bright young things-
And no matter what you are, you are a thing here.
They'll never get the red out of the apartment. Something of us will always be rotting there, hidden carefully behind white walls, tucked and folded time and again. They'll never know we were here. They'll never forget us.
The first girl is dead. She out ran her skin. You can't find her anywhere. You can't find her clothes. You can't find the sweater you gave her for christmas, that she used to hide her face in, collar up to her nose.
They should know we were here. I want them too know. I want them to know everything. Because we certainly don't.
The monster is gone too. He slunk off to some corner of a bar, or a street, or a house- its probably a house, you think. Misery festers better between clapboard and pine.
Come back to me. Come back here and eat me like you supposed to, eat me alive. You can't leave me here half-whole.
That last girl is dead now. You had to kill her, and I'm sorry, but its over now.
You know the truest version of the story that will ever be told. You are the only one left too tell it. You must be content with that.
(Let the newness crawl out of you. Let something different take places that were you in the marrow of your soul. Its over now. Your spine doesn't have to metal anymore.)
Dead girl, please be kind to yourself. I left the back door open for you, you can let yourself out.