Whoever you thought I was, I wasn’t her.
I was not the Madonna, nor her adversary. I was not the moon,
nor the red-taloned demonness taking pot shots at your heart
only to call her friends later and laugh about how quickly you
bled out. Why you were looking for her in the first place, I
cannot be sure. But maybe we did our hair alike. Or both
had similar curves. And yet, while you waited for me to
draw on you, I never did. Eventually you fell asleep
on my couch, confused at my lack of malice, and happy
to be the little spoon. I asked the back of your head why
you came in search of your executioner. Your soft snores
were my only reply, but I was glad
she never had the chance
to finish you off.
Cierra Lowe-Price, 2022