My critic, my monster, is me. Or, rather, parts of me that I don’t invite around anymore. The part that still smokes or still hopes that any man around will take a liking to me.
The part that spends too much money or throws my belongings around. The part that can’t fight off a nearing cold quick enough to avoid it altogether.
And also the part that thinks this way.
My monster is a spiral on it’s side, an ugly, grey funnel that begins and ends with the worst parts of me and whatever great muse there might have been, is a faint memory.
And what good is a memory anyway when you’re insides are gripping and clawing at themselves?
The youngest version of me in that memory is standing defiantly over the pretend carcass of a pretend bear she just killed in the neighbor’s yard. She does not yet know about the real battles ahead and she does not yet know what it will be like to lose them.