The Other Woman is, strangely enough, an individuality.
…as I drag my fabulous crimson dress across marble floors…
She has eyes and hands. Almost like me. Not like me. No one like me. He said so. My mind turns black.
…and the violins so harmonious and my shoulders so round…
Each sign that he acknowledges her existence is a possible peony swelling dangerously in my heart. Each praise, a hammer. Each sexual joke, a nail. His white gold ring on my finger doesn’t keep me together.
…silver spurs, summer wine. Incomprehensibly beautiful, I exist. Mirrors appease me…
He says he is free to do as he wishes. So am I. As time slides by, my blade becomes dull. I love him less, I care about her less.
… carrying a heart as a soldier carries a flag, I smile to others. They smile back. They are enchanted. Soon, they shall tire of me too. It is a new beginning, pregnant with death…
… only now, I dance better…
