Stars

I’m having an identity crisis. I can’t decide which villain fits my personality. I’m pretty nasty, so I’ve been told by my ex-boyfriends. I’ve been called bitch, bloodsucker and heartbreaker. I was the mummy, Vampira and even a werewolf. I howled at the moon. I changed. I became the animal. I wobbled around on high heels acting like a moron. The monster you invented. The call girl. The brunette. The blonde. It was all wigs and make-up and grunts. You were my Frankenstein.

Then I broke free. I said enough was enough.

“When did you become so smart?”

How did you not realize it all along? I’m not the dumb girl. Dumb girls can’t act.

I reach for your neck, longing for a kiss but instead I bite. You yowl. I crawl back to the bedroom alone. Ashamed. Acting out some bizarre monster movie and you didn’t even know that you were the star.

I’d give you the Oscar, but you don’t deserve it. You’re not Leonardo DiCaprio.

I realize you’ve been the villain the whole time. Not me. You’re the one that wasn’t acting.

I cry into my pillow and when I look down at the wet pillowcase. It’s not tears, it’s blood and I realize what I have to do.

It’s time for dinner.

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