The room is cold and stale,reminiscent of the grave that I was born in:It’s just me and this girl that I once knew.
I shot her in the face,made sure she bled out,walked away and scalped her hairto keep in my memoir.
Today,she still wears the scar across her forehead,yet she is back,not with anger or revenge,but ready to come home;
she daunters so slowly,grazes the edge of the roomwith a mirror in one hand and a gun in the other;there is no entry, no exit here.
The lightbulb hangs low from the ceiling.slowly rocks to-and-fro,flickering,there is no wind, no room here.
Her eyes are glazed backwards,body bending,petite and slender,a docile figure.
My skin yellowsfrom the fear that onceechoed in her earsand now consumes me.
A smile curves slanted,imprinting on her faceas time slips with the sweat from my back;it makes me nervous the way she stares —My hands are empty; no weapon nearby.The lights flicker on and off.
This young ladyis armedand in her hands,she holds a few things:a classic handgun in the left,and a mirror on the right.
I glare at my own reflectionand get nervous by the way I stare at myself;too familiar for me:like wearing old shoes,smelling your high school perfume,clothes scented with your mom’s detergent,the feeling of your first loveand heartbreak,the insecurities,the fights,the fragilityand ambivalence.
Counsel from the elders:they cautionedme to “never sleep on your pastbecause it will catch up to you”.
I thought I put her to rest,I did, but I guess this is all prophecy:
She holds the mirror to my face,and the girl I once defeatedis here again, facing me.