i always knew it would end like this by Heaven Collins

the water from the faucet drips slowly, filling the tub centimeter by centimeter. you blocked off the little hidden drain

so you can fill it to the brim,

submerging yourself in the blood of

the earth.

you light a single candle, pressing down

slowly on the trigger of the lighter,

the flame licks the wick for a few seconds, before the wick’s flame overpowers that of the lighter. it’s stronger, more

furious, angry. it can feel the energy that surrounds

you tonight, the wick feeds off of it. you place it in the corner of the bathroom, by the sink. the curves of your

naked valley are admired by your reflection in the

toothpaste stained mirror,

but not by you.

pressing a finger to the mirror,

a finger stained in blood, dried, crusted, peeling off, your reflection waves back at you, smiling

through her teeth, holding back a laugh that

would echo through your soul from the ground up. the day she appeared was the best day of your pathetic life, but no matter how

hard you try to switch places with her,

she won’t let you in.

as you step into the tub, one foot at a time, the water flows over the edge, splashing onto the ceramic tile floor that never seems to look clean no matter

how hard you scrub or how long

you stay on your knees trying to make her

palace clean.

the water turns red,

a soup of somebody else’s making,

but you can’t remember who it was that got

all over you. slipping your head under the water, your reflection watches you, even with your eyes closed. her eyes turn black, black like the darkest

 corner of the room, black like the cat that crossed your path weeks ago, black like the night sky when there’s no moon

to illuminate your path.

when you lift your head out of the water,

the wick blows out,

and she’s gone. but you can’t see yourself anymore, either.

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