Seven Years

You’ll see a mirror in that dusty room of dreams.

Look through the cobwebs at your reflection. You’re reclining on dead grass in an empty field, lazily watching the clouds roll by. You exhale and blow some dust off of your nose. Closing your eyes, you inhale the smog and haze, your every thought filled with disdain. Filth is becoming on you.

I wish I could step into this picture but it’s your self-portrait. My nails are dragging down the glass as I press against the mirror, willing myself in. Wishing I could touch your lips and feel warmth there. Wishing I could cut you and draw blood. Wishing I could fucking destroy you for what you’ve become.

It breaks my heart to see someone so infinite be so lost. If only I could see myself in your reflection! I’d bring a watering can and from that dead grass I’d grow a garden. I’d blow the dirt off your shoulders to reveal the brilliance that lies underneath.

I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even notice the spiderwebs closing in around me. I can feel the plucking of strings as the shadowy women from your past come inching towards me, their many beady eyes filled with death, longing for the taste of new blood. The webbing pulls tight, trapping me into their collective embrace.

“Stupid girl,” the largest one says, running one of her legs slowly down my cheek. She pulls me in close and whispers in my ear, “Now you’ll become one of us.”

She shrieks loudly as I rip off one of her fangs and throw it as hard as I can at your mirror. It shatters as another ex-girlfriend pulls me close and utters into my ear, “Seven years my dear.” As shards of glass fall like rain, the light drains from the room and as all goes dark I am locked in the clutches of a hundred spindly legs. The spiders of girlfriends past laugh collectively like a bunch of tin cans falling down a set of concrete stairs. Seven pairs of fangs sink into my neck and the world turns hot as everything spins into oblivion.

I open my eyes and I’m in our bedroom, right next to your sleeping form like I’m supposed to be. I sigh with relief. Fucking nightmares. I slide my hand under your shirt, longing to connect with your skin. “Please tell me I’m not too late. Please tell me I’m not too late.” I whisper. You smile in a half-dreaming haze and snuggle up against me. I sink back into the bed, relieved.

But then all the hairs on my neck raise up. I can barely make it out, and maybe it’s all just in my head, but I swear I hear the spine-chilling sound of arachnid legs scuttling across the room. And when I look, though I see nothing, I tremble inside. My neck does feel awful stiff.

Please tell me I’m not too late. Please, tell me I’m not too late.