florentine (d4)

in another life i am rich.

somewhere, in another universe entirely, there is a flo who eats saffron for every meal and sits at the head of tables so long you cannot see the other end. she is contrite, careless. she can afford to be. she acts on whims: breaks things on purpose, falls in love, rides horses. her pockets overflow with tiny candies, individually wrapped. she sparkles in the sun and she glows in the dark. boys suck on her fingers, girls clamour for her discarded, snotty tissues. she is angelic, otherworldly. she is unlike me in every way. she doesn't have to worry about the cost. 

i miss her, some days. but i know she is not me. she is the anti-me, the me i would have been (could have been) if my mother hadn't thrown it all away. she isn't to blame, of course. she was just like my imaginary alter-ego: sour-mouthed, restless, obsessed with her own demise, besotted with her own suffering. i would probably understand her better, if things were different. i hold my judgement. it melts in my mouth, and it rots there, but i refuse to swallow it down. 

i see shadows of myself, of my mother, every day. i am adept at dismantling them. i slip a bracelet from their wrist, disguised within a handshake. i wear it every day. i wear it like a mask, a façade. i adorn my goblin body with jewellery and pretty clothes i have stolen. i learn to fight so that when the time comes to eat the rich, i am ready. i practice my most affected, posh accent and try it on for size. i sound like i've ingested a large moth and its putting holes in all of my internal organs. i am believable, the pretence fits too well because really it was meant for me.

i am a mirror, i am my mother, i am a martyr.