Acidic

A small ping on an online messenger.
From who?
The user handle is still unknown to me
But she bears a moniker
Almost happy in nature.
She is a mutual friend, right? She must want to
Plot or write with me.
Her handle reigns sweet on the tongue,
Innocent enough.
It sounds like “cream”, a word for a
Thick product, like “beauty cream”,
Or “whipped cream”,
Or “hand cream”.
Awfully cute.
My first thought; she must smell nice,
Like vanilla buttercream, or spring roses,
Or the pleasant aroma of a dew-coated lily,
As the name sounds like she could be a
Pleasant, gentle girl.
 
However, so will man not be fooled again.
Within the walls of makeup
And cocaine-coated carmine cheeks
Lies a monster in disguise.
 
I bore witness to her distasteful ways
Through means of a sister figure.
The girl I once found to be “cute” had suddenly
Become an abuser, a manipulator,
The catalyst for a shattering psyche
That has swiftly switched to several.
DID is hell -- dissociative identity disorder,
Or so I've learned.
The blunt stubbornness,
The calm apathy,
The lurking kindness,
Amongst a single host, who I've come to respect.
The life of another is cast aside
And their responsibility soon falls from
The monster’s hands
To mine.
 
The pale complexion of a rabbit is soon
Bruised and rallied by gashes,
Coming home to a family that is not of her
Blood, but of her happiness.
My lover’s frail hand clutches tightly to my palm
In my head, my pseudological mother
Bundling me in the tightness
Of a cotton blanket,
Big brother coiling his arms with a viper’s grip
Around my waist.
The lips of an angel press to my face,
Cleaning away my tears,
Though I know it’s all a pathetic cacophony of lies
As they are not with me--
Not now, not for a long time.
 
The littlest sister sobs for the monster
To leave, coaxing it
Out of its wardrobe of apathy and suffering.
In her hands, the happiness
Of those around her.
Should she cease to exist, through any means,
There should exist no innocence in joy;
Only pursuit and temptation.
 
The cream of her name, once sugar sweet,
Has faded with the acidity
Of my words and saliva,
Leaving a sour taste in the mouth as I
Brace myself for a suicide so bittersweet
That it leaves me reeling.
 
She is dead.
The girl of cream and sunshine...has passed.
The monster inside, however,
Lives eternally.
 
They say coming back from the dead
Is fictitious --
I don’t know how she did it.
Word that she had run off somewhere better
Had surfaced, and she had
Returned to torture the land she came from.
Her army en masse, her head high,
Her form unscathed in every way.
 
Another crime, another brutal act of tyrrany
Courtesy of this monster.
The cream of her name had curdled
Until it forged a cemented weight
On my tongue, dictating
Each word, and pouring it to every soul I knew.
The schools would know of it.
No matter how many students, I’d make it known
That I’d been in the middle of
A kidnapping situation.
 
Falseness surrounds the air of their words,
And soon, the monster becomes
A figment of imagination.
Did they exist, or did they not?
We need your evidence, child. Speak up.
You’ve disproved one side of the story.
Now the rest.
 
I sit with my lover, awaiting the day this ends.
She speaks soothingly to me as I
Reach for an item beside my soft sofa chair,
My eyes brimming with salt and fluid
From minutes prior.
Strain, stress, discrepancy,
All things I cannot deal with.
I want to prove them wrong, I truly do,
And it pains me to see such blades,
Such blameful, bloody blades,
Breach their blow-by-blow reports with such
Distaste and dishonour.
 
“I’m fine,” I plead, yet I am not.
The acid in my mouth burns longingly at my throat
In hopes of reaching my inners,
A soft, yearning suicide.
The suicide of hopes, dreams of love and peace,
Has fallen down as the crumbling remains of a tower.
Our tower.
 
The verdict is guilty;
Not the monster, but the victim.
Things were not as they seemed to be, and I lay
Fooled and confused
At the stinging, painful aftermath.
Man says the crystal-sharp steel of bullets
Fuelled by gunpowder, or the
Razor tip of a broadsword
Is the only thing to puncture man’s skin,
But no.
Their words, their words so blunt and rough,
Rubbed at my skin and heart
Until they came to pulp.
 
The monster was now a girl, painfully innocent,
But the victim is still my heart.
A sickeningly sweet surrender of my mind
Had made me
A pushover, a pansy,
A puny pussyfooted punk of a girl
In search of guidance.
 
The victim owns my heart, my angel sent from heaven;
As the others scramble for safety
From the winged reaper
They deem to be a demon,
I feel the soft caress of its wings as my eyes
Glaze over with its kindness.
Trust is but a word.
 
My favourite of them all.