She isn’t nasty. But she’s always acted nasty and felt nasty. When she was younger, she had a “nasty” but then she became nasty. She doesn’t have a name, she has a label. She doesn’t have a life, she has a purpose. She slays. Sensuality as her shield and sexuality is her sword.
She is a mist. No one knows her, not even herself, really. She is alone. She has no one of her own. No father, no mother, no grandmother, no sister, no friends and no children. Ageless, she’s always floated without landing; serving a purpose, belonging nowhere and existing only in her usefulness. The opinions of others is her resume of shame and the only proof of her having manifested. She is needed but never wanted. A means to an end. An outsider, a ghost. A flaw, a thing to be hidden when not needed, a necessary evil.
She’s a figment. A shape shifter who can accommodate any space assigned to her from the pedestal to the gutter. She’s numb and disembodied, blind, deaf and mute; not feeling the loaned body she borrows, not looking into the eyes of others so that she’s not seen, not hearing the whispers of judgement, not speaking up because she doesn’t exist to defend. She’s tired and isn’t sure she wants to feel, see hear or speak – to experience the inconvenience and pain of participating further in this world. Having served her purpose, she isn’t sure why she must now be resurrected and repurposed.
She knows her toxicity intimately and, with her shield and sword useless now, she tries to stay dormant. She brings the shame to the surface; makes the memories rise up like zombie corpses from their graves…some achingly familiar and others, still worse, lying in wait in unmarked graves. She is the crack through which this shame pours, a portal of poisonous discontent. The shame her waking brings is excruciating, denied the passage of time yet heinous in retrospect. Physically searing. Unbearable.
Her only pride is in her protection of others from herself. She doesn’t know how to exist apart from the mist. She isn’t certain that she should.