Monster

Your eyes are boring into me with the overpowering, pellucid stare of a madman.  I cower, frown indignantly to myself, stare at the knobby knuckles climbing out from beneath my ivory skin.  I picture bone on bone, a thrill rocketing into my blood as my fist connects with your jaw, jutting out beneath clenched teeth.  You always made a show of holding back, as if you were strong to begin with.  As if your teeth were clenched in anger instead of fear.



I picture my tiny, white knuckles smashing against your cheek, your madman's eyes wide with shock as you recoil from the blow.  I come at you again, all of my hatred boiling over, frothing to the surface.  Again, again, again, until your blood trails between my fingers, down the back of my hand, making little red rivulets as it flows to my elbow, drops to the ground.



I see my hands beneath the faucet, scrubbing at your blood, watching it go down the drain.  I scrub and scrub, but still, there is blood.  I am bleeding, I realize.  I must have cut open my fist on the sharp bones of your face.  I look and now it is my blood twirling in lazy circles towards the bottom of the sink.  Red tainting the limpid wet, tainting me as I stare.



All of these images flash in a moment.  I can feel your hand tightening around my hand, crushing my fingers against each other, grinding the bone.  I try not to wince, try to unhinge my mouth and let the lie fall between us, between your hand and mine.



I love you, too.  But it never comes out.  With a collective sigh, the bones in my fingers crack, violin strings sliced one by one by one.  One by one, my nerves retreat, as they always do, until I am floating in a gray expanse.  One by one, beads of your spit fly onto my face as your voice scares away the dust from the trees.  One by one, piece by piece, you are making a monster in me.