Why, Molly?

January 7, 2013
It’s a question I get more often than not. You can’t just drop a bomb like this on someone and expect them to just nod in response or something. And that’s kind of the answer- someone or something didn’t respond when I called it; I was molded before my bones had a chance to solidify. I used to play in front of mirrors, drawing spirals on my chest with a hooked finger. But subcutaneous matter—like this, see?—it just got in the way of the person inside. That same finger searched for me; it scraped my throat, sifted through vomit—where the hell are you? And I said, right here, I’m alive, I’m here!
No one heard me for a while.
My lips siphoned water, my hands clung to bone; I forgot which way was up. It was cooler in the deep end.
Sixteen seasons, sixteen before they found me. Sixteen—I lost hair when it got colder. I lost hair and teeth and time, lots of time. I could have built a woman.
That little girl who loved the moon, remember her? She loved chapter books and caught a fish that one time at the lake. It was hungry, though. I couldn’t stop it. It ate her in my sleep. I’m sure one day when I wake up I’ll plant yellow snapdragons in her yard.
The search party’s on a leave of absence, maybe realizing, yeah, she’s dead. I answer to her name. People ask me where she went. I say, “Ana took her some time ago. Didn't you notice?”
Why did I do it? Well, I didn't.
The house just collapsed.

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