they have said his beard was blue, but it was not.
they have also said they stopped him.
many girls are now alive while I am not.
look – I am not resentful.
they say dead people always are, but that’s a lie.
I don’t hate them. I don’t hate him.
yes, really. why? well, because –
let’s start at the beginning.
he was handsome enough, nice enough
asked me to dance, took my hand – there was no blood
under his fingernails.
I could’ve done worse, I suppose.
I married him quickly – ring, vows, castle, done.
he clothed me in satin, decked me out in jewels
I can still hear their voices. oh, you’re so lucky.
I felt lucky.
but see, I was a cat in a box, dead and alive, dead and alive
curiosity killed the cat, so now I’m only dead.
I am getting ahead of myself.
there was a key, I’m sure you’ve heard the story
and a pool of blood, and seven bodies hanging in the basement.
I was never very good at cleaning.
it’s a fatal flaw to some men.
here we are. I am dead, and the key’s still dirty.
once I saw a cat, cleaning her newborn mewling kitten
and she could have done that for me, if you think about it
licked away the blood until the key gleamed again
but so it goes. it’s every girl out for herself.
so. back to resentment.
the kitten’s still alive, and I’m glad
even when it came and lapped up my blood
spilling in a puddle on the basement floor
I was still glad. the kitten deserves to live.
but right, you don’t want to know about the kitten.
you want to know about him, and why I don’t hate him.
it’s simple, really.
they have said his beard was blue, but it was not.
they have said he was hated.
he might have been. I cannot say.
but I can admit it now: there was a moment
when he turned from me and the light hit him just so
where I could’ve sworn I loved him.