At dawn, her smile is tentative; like the Roman soldier who pierced Jesus’ side to confirm His humanity. In the same manner, her naïve confidence shines through her eyes, trickles down her wrist when she slices open a vein. Because the secret to life is flowing; flowing! Faster than she can control it, except that her heart regulates that cycle that keeps her chest at a slight heave, that makes her blink when an insect lands in her eye, that makes her desire the forbidden, that makes her thoughts amorphous like cigarette smoke from a 50 year old bachelor. Yes, at dawn, her smile is tentative. Because she is poised at the cusp of becoming what her inner voice dictates, not what is determined by society? Like a newborn foal, her footing is unsteady, voice tremulous and unsure yet here she is a new victim, a new saviour, a new Messiah, a new degenerate, a new mother, a new sister, a new friend, a new lover, a new enemy. It’s all new at dawn.
At midday she is the harlot with red stained lips, the charlatan with little regard of humanity, a prostitute of narcissism, a lover of sin and decadence. She is the seductive woman parting her thighs and grabbing her breasts with a defiant glint in her eye. She is the six inch knife driving into your chest and with twisting penetration, ensures that she’s firmly lodged inside. She is the shame you feel when you masturbate in your childhood bed for the first time after downloading grainy porn clips on your mother’s expensive phone. She is the sharp spike of anxiety and guilt when you tell a lie that may have great implications, the illicit affirmation of abnormality; because really, normal is a set of accepted abnormal behaviour. At midday she whips herself into submission, writhes in the pool of blood at her feet from her wounds, rubs sand into her lacerations and watches them fester and fill with maggots. At midday her sexuality is as debatable as looking into the eye of the sun. At midday she is Medusa’s lover.
At sunset she is the shadow that leaps back into your body when light is cast onto it, the cricket that jumps on your white blouse and startles you. She is the ant that crawls along your hairline and makes you itchy, the cat that hides under your car and leaves regurgitate of its previous meal. At sunset she is obsidian, velvet and icy. At sunset, she is the moonlight refracted on the surface of a lake, the deranged wolf howling for companionship. At sunset, she is death.