How do I begin to describe in ways you will understand? Given that to you, I am the monster.
I am the dark fog creeping over the moisture-infused grass, weaving between the dull headstones, discoloured and crumbling over time.
To you, I am colourless. Harrowing. Prudish. I am the ornate cup of earl grey tea quivering ever so slightly upon it's ceramic saucer.
My claws wrap around your so-called 'beloved' and to what? To keep him from you?
To have him trapped in my terrible clutches, unable to move or breathe?
I am such a denizen of despair, am I not?
The banshee sweeping into the room. The nameless wraith who haunts even your child's dreams.
I am terrible.
I am unkind.
I am an obstacle in the way.
I am all these things that you paint me out to be.
I am finally here, my darling, start the applause.
By all means, you can be the woman of the hour and reap the temporary rewards: a brief exchange of words, his awkward hand and fleeting smile across a crowded space.
Whilst I am the woman of the century and have a life to lead that is not defined by the actions and choices of one man that you are clearly besotted with.
I did not rise from the woodwork to ruin your chances, my dear. He came to my arms before your name was even uttered.
Heed this warning.
Do not try and play the queen at her own damn game.
You can take to the stage, if you must. This is your moment to break your own pretty little heart.
Stumbling around cluelessly.
You think you can best me, sweet thing? I would hate for you to bruise such beauty.
You are perfect and porcelain.
Like one of my daughter's dolls, you are expendable and prone to being unwanted.
You call this a rivalry? Don't make me laugh.
From one mother to another, for I have done my research, I would advise that you reevaluate your priorities.
And set an example worthy of your family to look up to.
For now, you are an imitator. A pretender.
And I am whole-heartedly flattered that you have spent so much of your clearly busy schedule of salivating over my man to hate me for breathing the sheer air around us.
You may believe you bring the fire, yet you walk on frozen ground in my domain.
The sharpness of my tongue could kill you and even then, he would not attend your funeral.
I will save you the hassle of fruitless meanderings.
There is no competition. There is nothing that you can prove.
He has made his choice.
Sit yourself down, little duck. Before you hurt yourself.
