The man she buried is back and knocking.

That she is me!

There were no flowers at his funeral.

He was never dead, just buried deep and now, ‘for all the god’s and saints’, he’s back and knocking off my closest ‘friend’.

Even though I bore him no ill. I had dearly wished him away and believed him gone from my life forever.

Certainly, I never hoped to see him again. As said, I buried him deep down, off stage, outside my mind, beyond what I errantly believed was my caring forever.

Now he would return to play me as a poor forgotten actor.

Not expecting to see him again - let alone turning up in my life to taunt me as the prospective life-long partner of someone I introduced to him as my ‘best friend’ at summer sailing school - and now, he’s asked the devil for her hand. It seems it has been given and it’s crystalclear, that he is set on marrying her.

That oily, arrogant, good looking Greek bastard, that son of Chaos is back and that flowing, long haired, saffron blonde dyed bitch, is going to marry him.

Bridesmaid me - be dammed. I would rather serve as a handmaiden to a dog than play a helpful role in the wedding that was for all the world my own!

They say you should ‘never mix business with friendship’, I say you should ‘never mix close friendship with love’ or whatever that word is which describes the state you think that you are in when someone sweeps you off your feet, infiltrates your heart, steals the key and captures your every waking moment.

I was utterly besotted by him – my every virgin cell destroyed - I would have given him everything and anything he wanted, my Edwardo, my Eros - the Sun the Moon the Stars, I would have burgled the heavens and looted the galaxies to make him happy.

Though I was no otherworldly, full breasted, captivating and voluptuous ‘Aphrodite’s’, I was warm hearted and kind, ‘so it was said’, and head over heels with heart and soul overbrimming with thoughts of how I might please him. His lust was my command, his every wish my intimate personal desire.

But, that door was now locked and I would not now strip myself of the slightest rag or cloth that might allow him the merest fleeting glimpse of my now aching flesh and desirous, ever unfilled concupiscence.

I would not be playing second fiddle in their affairs, nor would I be constrained by the music of violins – my life was perhaps not as sweet as I would like. Not quite milk and honey for the bears and bees, but I would not now be soured by the bitter living spectacle of my dreams being fulfilled in anyone else’s life even though it may have been my sister’s!

They say that personal assassination is abnormal, I say it is merely a convenient and forgiving gate to exit through to nothingness and extasy from a place where everything and every thought one ever had was hijacked by the ‘Gods’ and the laughing stock of his sassy sinful congregation.

Out out, brief candle your light has provided nothing but the background for the silhouette of sadness.

I will not allow myself, to ask myself, to endure of late, that injurious, unjust, unfair, unexpected knocking.

 

The end.