Sincerely, Jennifer x

I find it hard to read your mind,

and the sway of your hips,

and the curl of your lips,

because my Father thought that education wasn’t for women,

and so my eyes are humble and still so young.

Your eyes taunt me.

Hazel,

hypnotising,

my heart is helpless to the honey that drips,

down and down,

into each empty space,

and echoing evening,

until I am drowning from the inside.

Still,

despite my death sentence,

you insist that I have control.

I think that maybe I am God.

Grown,

cruel,

disempowering.

You tell me that it’s all up to me,

and I do nothing,

despite your prayers,

and the way that you writhe on your knees.

My flesh is not yet free,

waiting to writhe with you,

but aching under my asinine commands,

longing for me to be the last woman on Earth,

so that my suffering may end,

when hope dies.

Hell is waiting,

but I have many friends and admirers there,

and a time share,

that perhaps you’d like to holiday in.

You slither closer,

constricting until breathing is nothing more than a distant memory,

and I embrace the familiar melody of the fire.

I think that I maybe I am Satan.

Cruel,

grown,

disempowering.

I do not recall why it is up to me.

I just beckon you towards the beauty of my crackling, scorching wonderland,

and I wait.

Caught in the deadlights of your dangerous stare,

knowing that I will not understand, until I do,

and that there is no way to revise for this examination.