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…Can you imagine it?
...Can you even imagine it?
The shock?
It’s laughable.
Here, I am laughing, this very moment. It’s hilarious.
It’ll be hilarious.
The look on his face.
Can you imagine it?
The look of shock on his face when he expects to see his—because that’s what she is now, I just decided to give him her now, not that it’ll be much good—happy cute smiling clumsy loud girl, and instead he gets me?
Can you imagine the number of expectations I managed to let down this time?
The way I always do?
To precious things?
The way when you try to hold a butterfly you always manage to break its wings?
The way when you should have been able to understand her but you just ******** didn’t like a whore?
The way you should have just kept your stupid mouth shut all these years the way they all wanted you to?
And the way they look at you after you do it.
You, sick b***h, with your hands covered in the shimmering blue scales of those crumpled wings.
Tears, that’s all you ever have, isn’t it?
Tears are not enough to grow back wings, but are enough to spread themselves.
Just don’t touch.
Anything.
Ever.

I can imagine.
I do imagine that it will be the same shock as my mother had when she saw me after those months.
Months?
….I must have aged years.

Yes.
I think I tried to smile, when they glanced in my direction, though I never managed more than a sympathetically pained wince.
But it was so difficult; the muscles in my face wouldn’t budge no matter how I tore at them.
And there were no tears.
They were all dumb somewhere like the spring lambs who wouldn’t escape through the open corral mid-heat of their slaughter.
And I didn't touch.
I didn’t hug my mother when I saw her for the first time in three months.
Because of my muscles again.
But how odd is that?
Almost as odd as five ulcers all being caused by too much Advil.
……Yes……Odd…………
And after she makes a point to dismiss odd Things such as this.
Typically.

But really, what’s the point?
Everything he might have ever liked about me I killed.
Or rearranged, but he won’t like the patter anymore, I know.
Of course we know.
We made sure not to touch anything.
Even if the maybes are played out.
It would hurt him; what I am.
I know it would.
It would spread tears to him, I know.
Make him sad.
Make Him A Lamb If He Was Close To It, I Would.
God knows I would reach.
All greedy for those lithe blue wings.
And in doing so, I would break them.
His wings.
I would let him down.
His expectations.
I wouldn’t be able to make him smile anymore.
I would let him down.

I don’t want to have to do that again; fake everything.
Try, at first, to be the girl he liked, the one before those years.
But I can't handle that, I wouldn’t be able to lie like that everywhere again, I’m too weak to now. I’d burn out. I’d be cold, I’d make him go away. I know I would. I’d feel the pain until I grew used to it, then I would leave him for a new ailment. A defensive stance for the both of us—why can’t I just trust h—so I wouldn’t break his wings. But he would hate me like they all do. But he would be okay.
But he wouldn’t stay.
They never stay.
It hurts to stay, I know.
It’s alright.
I make them leave.
It’s okay.
It is.
Here.
It’s good here.
So I shouldn’t call him.
Or see him.
There’s no point.
Really, why bother.

So when I do call him, when we meet at the mall or the park or where ever, when I do see him again after, what, two years or one?
When I see him there and he sees me, I simply won’t wait to see his face, his expression; his shock.
I won’t be able to; I’ll be too busy hugging him to notice.
Ever.