I can be cold, withholding and without mercy, when it comes to her, but also an explosion of affection, so, it’s no wonder she’s so all screwed up, so sewn up, keeping troubles deep inside her bones, telling her stories to her pillows.
I must confess. My kindness towards her depends on how other people love her. When she is adored, I am mad about the girl, but when she is abandoned, I am just mad.
I dress her in a coat every morning. A coat of armour. A coat of arms. A curated coat, that lets the world see her with confidence. Taking all the threads she could never quite pull together, and crafting her into something that is safe for everyone to consume.
I am mad about the girl, just now. I brush her hair every morning, I make her breakfast and bathe her in juniper berries and honey once again, like she’s a princess, because she is someone’s princess, just now, and so I want her to remember, because when the revolution comes, and the monarchy is destroyed, she will be desolate, and she will forget.
I hate when she forgets. Pathetic. Alone in bed. Staring at blank walls, that blur as the tears come. My sad girl siren. I am mad. Misanthropic and mad. Throwing her breakfast at the walls, drawing an ice bath, in the hopes that she will drown.
I drown out her continuous crying with loud recitals of what she will offer to the world when she is well again. I wrote you a new record, hunnybee. I wrote you a new poem, hunnybee. Will you fucking wake up, hunnybee? You don’t need to be adored, hunnybee.
It’s all a lie, you know. None of its true. We’re in the mansion of the mad, she and I, and she DOES need to be adored, fawned over, fought for, but it’s never enough, when it’s just me, staring at her in the mirror, mumbling some kind of self love mantra. Maybe one day it will be different, or maybe one day I’ll be enough, but until then, I monitor her moods and try to save her from herself.
Luckily for me, she is currently adored, and so, I am mad about the girl. Bringing her breakfast in bed, while she basks atop her electric blanket, like a sweet, seductive snake. I brush her hair, beautiful, black curls, soft and smelling of cinnamon, because I got some new shampoo, as a treat, a little present for her being so present at the moment.
She writes her New Year’s wishes on little slips of paper, surrounds them with sugar and submerges them in jars of honey, and for once, I think she’s happy, so, I am mad about the girl, just now. Marvellously mad.