Don’t forget me! No. Never mind, you can’t . You’ll refuse to. Even after my lingering scent on your floral bedspread jumps on the last train to Freedom, you’ll for long sneer at me in the mirror— at the wrinkles on your face. At the grey hairs you dye because you can’t stand to be made up of anything real.

You may try to. But the moment your fiancé turns and asks you, “Honey, whatever happened to that stuck up daisy you knew?” you’ll gasp in horror. Theatrically collapse to the ground and look up at him with frazzled conviction.

“Well I stopped watering her, of course! And then she wilted!”

Just the mere thought of your next meal forgetting that his ballerina blessed the pig before killing her boils the blood in your veins. Letting go of your first victim means that her coffin will finally be put into the ground. The funeral festivities will commence. Family will begin asking questions. Questioning you.

So instead you let me rot in your shed. My body decays. You never gave my bones the blessing to heal. You look at me now. You recall the last words I said to you. Before you stabbed me in the back. Dug the knife under my skin.

I wonder now, did my words get under yours, Mother?

I love you.

My final act of rebellion before the curtains closed for good. Your— crimson kryptonite. My— last gift to you. Twas the memory of you cradling me postpartum. The words you whispered to the wind and prayed nobody had the courage to hear.

I love you.

You murdered the baby you had the audacity to love and woman you raised to hate. Your first words to me… were alas my last to you.

Almost tragic, ain’t it?

I almost wish you were here to see me flourishing in death. The glee I’d bleed when you’d finally lat your corruption on my father again. Your first slayed and his long-awaited, estranged— protege.

Reunited, him and I again.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he told me.

Freedom is not your home, Mother. Get out. Stay gone. Your teeth don’t bruise here. Your tricks, I now trade for the drops I rain down on your parade. When you smell a storm looming in the distance, know that it’s me who sent it. I am every tornado siren you fear and ice patch you slip on in the dead of winter.

You will never forget me.