my frankenstein

aka how a girl treats her journal

entry one:

The date was written a long time ago. Now it’s balding. I could spend ink or a vein to cover it, but I won’t. I’m sorry that you aren’t Aphrodite. You look raw today. Yes, you are made of leather, but I can smell the animal they pulled you off of. Were you a cow? Or a plant? Fiber is flexible enough to hold my weight.

Why are you balding?

entry two:

Sylvia Plath must be your friend. You sit next to her, and I watch your thoughts exchange like spring pollen. It tickles my nose, and I can hardly bear to look at you. Or her. Why was her pen so gentle? I wish it could have been more gentle. I am afraid to have you sit next to her.

entry three:

I am Jane Eyre. And Victor Frankenstein. Are you done seeing both of my faces yet?

I tried to create you gently. And for the lie, I am sorry.

entry four:

You are my hostage, but captives have a door to look at. You, poor thing, are fused to my hip like honey to a lip. When I stretch, you bleed with me.

The water cycle. That’s what you are; a fountain that spins and baptizes, until I am nobody. Not Plath, nor Eyre, nor Frankenstein. I wish I could be the words. Instead, I am something bigger.

And you are the puddles that amass under me because of it.