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“I wish someone would save me from this unhappiness,” I say.
Bitterness sits in the corner. She rolls her eyes and they sparkle and she says, “Urgh, the drama! I love it.”
Bitterness, the bitch, has me in her clutches. She’s the cave around me, dripping into my hair and the ground beneath me, poking into my arse and back. She’s the darkness and the plug and the gag and the anger.
I stare at her, point blank. She’s brown like me which feels even more unfair. Her nails are long and pointed. I mean painted.
I don’t know what I mean.
Her fingers are elegant. She’s taller than me but only by an inch, so our eyeline can never properly meet in balance.
She taps her weave, the one I’m too cowardly to admit that I wanted first. I want to scream at her and to be taken into her arms and for us to be together forever and to never see her again.
“Fight me,” she says.
I want to but can’t. I can but won’t. I could, but why?
There’s something so seducing about her presence. She’s frightening and beautiful and dangerous to me and me alone. I stare at her body, studying it up and down, licking my lips. It’s obscured by the darkness. Her darkness. Maybe it’s ours. From one angle, she’s voluptuous and thick and juicy. I blink and then she’s like a hanger: skin and bones hanging on a rail, squeezed by all that’s around her.
I want to be saved from this unhappiness.
But sometimes I don’t hate when she’s here. I crave her time and her attention and energy.
“Please stay,” I say.
And I hate myself more.
“You’re weak,” she says.
I don’t want this unhappiness, I think.
But some days I wonder whether I bring it on myself.