I often see you look at
me, your sidelong glances out
from lowered eyelids, as if wondering
where I suddenly
appeared from. Not the girl
you once had a chance of loving, before
she started living her life with
a bang, an explosion
so strong it shattered all
of your expectations, this
is not quite a woman, but you
do not know what she- I
am. You look on, dumbfounded
for only a split second
when hurtful words hurtle
out from my lips, whizzing by your straight back
and stony face, wondering
who put them these. I
am more brilliant and sharp
than you had ever
thought I would be, and you
do not know how
this could be.
Listen to me
when I tell you that this
is all to your credit. My words
are only being said in the style
of the master, she
who taught me to build bombs
of truths, to throw them
at the chinks she taught me to see
in the enemy's armor, to know
unerringly before whom
I stand. My brilliance
was a gift, too, this
is my outer shell, shining
with my blood that I tried
to keep in, but I couldn't, so I painted
myself and called myself
Red. My sharpness
is not originally mine, I
am removing the harpoons
you struck into my flesh, and
throwing them back, casting off the lines
you would hold me with. You see,
mother dearest, I am not truly, originally,
a shining star. I merely
follow the leader.