despite all the peacocking, there was always a stubborn streak of sensibility running down and around the bones in her spine that was obnoxiously rude to impracticality, but as she sat in the kitchen and listened to her mother telling her that her cat had died, slight and slicing, she felt that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like when you’re reaching for a door in the darkness, but it’s further away than you think and there’s nothing there.
she couldn’t help thinking those thoughts; they came from a mind that was like a faucet that leaked with no comfort in the sound; she used to think of them as benign untruths stretched taut over an ivory frame before she realized that the Catholic Church employed deceit in exactly the same way.
a yarn turning into a sweater, fiction turning into reality- it was as surreal as gold braces on fangs. a lie to escape a day of work turning into a weekend of high fever and body chills, sad thought entrails spent fermenting twist into someone else’s saccharine pain. does she really believe that she simply thought them one day and for whatever reason it became? if observational selection, jean grey, and coincidence were the ‘Our Father’ beads on her rosary, being satiated by this horrible guilt were the Hail Mary’s.
she suspected she knew why. it was something she’d wanted for a long time, something she’d set her sights on years ago and was so close to getting, and in a fleeting moment, of desperation and longing, she’d thought of Faustian bargains and the law of sacrifice and dreams that sour in the suburban sun.
and then she’d come home.
the sometimes overwhelming weight of what cost truly is, glaringly clear in a painful lack of life, impossibly silent and cold.
she is always cold.