I do not hate you, though I’m sometimes appalled by the kind of fangs you bring to bear.
But we all have our own bite you know.
You’re building an army of girls; ignorant girls, lost girls, weak girls. Girls who know no better because they have never counted the teeth of a crocodile (directly of course—some of these girls have counted the likenesses embedded in their arms). They are on the right side of that jawline now, and can only tut-tut as the river runs red with their former comrade’s blood.
But you know no better; all you know is that the bottom line is your preferred place to stand. Especially when that line is held by everyone else.
Yes, beautiful you, ‘like-me’ you, shady-ass you; mostly harmless you.
It’s your teeth that get me most; they are astounding to the point of being suspicious. And that is how I picture you always: teeth first, and I remember the details around them.
Cheshire Cat you, only slightly less reputable.
You lack a sense of self outside your own madness and the violent desperation of your greed, your demands, your gnawing certainty that it is all yours simply because you want it. You have to have it. You know how to get it.
And you always do.
You do not create; you are not a creator, but one who can only tailgate on intelligent ambition. You cry ‘me too’ with that cheerleader’s smile upon your face. You are a copier, a clinger, a mimicry screaming down doubts and uncertainties.
Screaming down our experience.
I commend you, however, for perceiving that the safest thing to be in life is the power behind the throne. Visible, with a Name, with an army of admirers at the ready you need sweat for nothing, risk nothing, die for nothing.
The back side of the throne is the safest place to be, for the bullets are stopped by the innovators, by those out front, by those substantial enough for the assassins to have learned their names.
You are merely bold. And you have a nose for blood. You do not wait for the massacre to begin but kick off for fresher ground beforehand, laying your escape route so your move looks both innocent and inevitable when the time to bury our dead rolls round.
But you have little sense of self to kick with, as kicking requires a moment’s pause, a reflection, a steadying of legs that are actually yours before the thrust and the jar; the shock of an impact anticipated yet somehow underestimated.
You must prepare, always, for the moment you must run. You are only alive at the peak, and then again in the in-between (don’t even try to deny the in-between, ok?)
You move from crowd to crowd, sniffing, studying, expecting no resistance, fully expecting that no one will see you coming but everyone will know when you’ve arrived.
Our gift to you is to let you be, to say nothing of this, to give you a pass so you will occupy your time turning in circles rather than hunting.
Perhaps we are better people for it, but I have my doubts.
You do not bend, borrow, or earn; you siphon straight from the source, straight from the can you kicked over before other people got there.
I see you, I see you for the viper you are fronting as the vixen you wish to be.
Know this too: you will not have died anonymously, your name unknown. I see you. I see you, and what I have learned about you and from you will be transferred to those around me.
You too are immortal.
But like all snakes nature dictates you must slip your skin on the regular, which thus requires you strip such lovingly constructed artifice from you surfaces. That you must self-destruct then start again.
Sisyphus got nothing on you. She had only a boulder.
I know how this table is set. I see it. I get it. I take no issue—you are what you are and that is all.
But know this too: acceptance does not require complicity. Nor does it mean stupidity. I needn’t step into your nest nor tempt that forked tongue into action to best assert my will.
It is not compulsory, for even wolves decline to engage some days.