25

“Silly girl. He’ll cut you into tiny, bite sized pieces. From the cuts he makes, all the humanity of you will seep out. He’ll lick it all up, taste it on his forked tongue. He’ll roll it around in the cold inside of his mouth. He may celebrate your taste. He’ll tell you that you taste of peaches, or the rain. He’ll tell you that you taste like something you’ve always wanted to taste like. I always wished I tasted sweet, and feared that I tasted bitter, like a lemon, like burnt coffee. You will probably believe in your sweetness more readily than I ever did. You’ll smile. But then he’ll spit it all out. He’ll curse you for the mess you’ve made, kick at you while you try to mop up the mess with your own wadded up skirts. Silly, silly little girl. You are not imaginary and soon he will have no use for you. You taste just as bitter as the rest of us.”

I wish someone had said this to me, all those months ago.