To Make Monsters Out of Girls

by Amanda Lovelace

this is how i will finally bury you. - it’s much too late to repent, sweetheart.

Powerful ending to the first poem

oh yes, i know what you’re thinking, but the poems you find in this book won’t immortalize you. these poems are the means by which you will finally become dead to me—licked clean from my insides like the last dollop of honey at the very bottom of the pot. everyone will finally learn what you did to me all those years ago, but none of them will ever be able to scrape the bitter taste your name leaves on my tongue . . . now will they, ? - this is your unmarked grave.

& what else is there to live for besides your one true love?

he told me i was an obligation like grocery shopping on an empty stomach, but you told me i was as vital as that after-dinner cigarette you could never have just one of. - the difference between.

the boy who isn’t sure about anything is sure about me. - weak at the knees.

falling in love with you was like that knowing, heart-stopping, airless, upside-down moment right before a fatal collision. - brace for impact.

i can’t decide who it is i’m more frightened of— you, or the person i’ve let myself become since knowing you. that little girl used to wake up at dawn because she saw each day as an adventure awaiting her? the little girl who used to chase invisible faeries around the garden with her grass-stained feet? the little girl who saw magic in mundane things like mismatched teaspoons & broken clocks? she’s so far gone, i don’t think she’ll ever be able to claw her way back to me. - monster-girl.

you remind me of the way flowers bloom so furiously in the spring, like the loudest fucking declaration of survival you’ll ever witness. as if to say, “i’m back. i’m here. i’m alive. i won’t waste a single second dwelling on what it’s like to be anywhere else.” although, you also remind me of the way flowers always—without fail—wither where they stand & slowly but surely return to the earth, particle by particle, back to the home they keep most of the year. - where they know they truly belonged all along.

what you need to know about the monster: when they threaten to disappear without a trace, they never really do. pay close attention next time & notice how they always leave the door cracked open a little behind them in fear that you won’t invite them in the next time they’re feeling insecure & lonely & starved for something more loyal than they’ve ever been. - my open door.

he may have gone, but i’m still finding his fingerprints on every surface of me. - intruder.

how can you expect me to be friends with you when the inside of my mouth is crusted over with scabs from the effort it takes not to say those three words you never want to hear from me again? - “i love you” / “i hate you”.

in the autumn, the monster ripped his way through my bosom, twisted my heart until it became a deadened thing, & buried it somewhere in the leaf-littered wood. he left no marker, no signs leading back to it. when i asked him why he did this, he told me that he was finished with it for now & he didn’t want anyone else to find it in the meantime. - the ending.

once my eyes adjusted to the brightness—that’s when i first noticed him. a shovel in one hand, a mud-splattered heart in the other. i waved, offering a small, hopeful grin in his direction. a cautious smile grew in return. i so desperately wanted to say to him, you can do this, you know. you can come back from whatever it is that they did to you, but i knew he already knew that. he didn’t need any reassurances from me, just as i didn’t need any from him. but if nothing else, there is so much comfort to be found in knowing that we aren’t the only ones who feel like the freezing season will never relent. - the sun-heart.

“that girl is mine,” the monster-boy growled. “that’s where you’re wrong. that girl belongs to the coffee shops & the bookstores & the treetops—but mostly she just belongs to herself,” he said, unafraid. - thank you.

you’re married now, but not to the first girl. not to me. no, you ended up marrying a completely different girl. that seems like it should be the punch line to a really, really bad joke after everything you put us through. after everything i contributed to. yes, i can admit my fault now. i might have been young, but i was nowhere near blameless in the end of our dream. you’re not at fault for anything i said or did—only i am. the first time i heard the news, i expected tears. i expected a cry so loud that it would land upon stars in other galaxies. in other universes. in other dimensions. at the very least, i expected a vodka-neat scorch to rip through my body. but you know what? that didn’t happen. the world did not stop mid-spin, nor did it lose a pigment of its color. the sun never became eclipsed by the all too self-important moon. i imagine going back in time to tell my younger self about this moment—the one where i finally realize that my life truly did go on without you wreaking havoc inside of its walls. i try so hard to imagine it, but i know she wouldn’t believe a single useless word i said. yet here i am. i stand before you the woman who managed to become everything you said she could never one day be. in the years since you’ve been gone, i’ve managed to find love again; more importantly, i’ve managed to find myself again. now i’m the one who takes all our mistakes & sells them to strangers.

just like in the movies, we quite literally bump into each other at the bookstore one afternoon. i’m not sure what kind of books you like to read anymore—probably something like stephen king—but all the ones tucked in your arms go tumbling to the ground & mix with my gillian flynn. i don’t even sense them falling. i’m too mystified by the sight of you to bend down & help you pick them back up. “why don’t we grab some coffee & catch up?” you ask. so we do. you tell me stories about your children & i try to smile politely at the correct times. you avoid mentioning your wife & i avoid mentioning my spouse, which is probably best for both of us. i try to tell you about my writing & you can’t hide the red draining from your cheeks, so you find a way to change the subject. no, you don’t want to hear about all the hollywood monsters i turned you into to make people understand. there is no slow blast of fireworks. there are no heartstrings finally coming to relax underneath the table between us. there is no magical moment of lost love found. inside this moment, we are not allie & noah. no, in this moment i am allie & you are lon. or maybe you are noah & i’m martha. i can’t be certain. what there is, however, is a sort of silent understanding. in a different life, we could have been holding hands across this table, discussing ordinary things like grocery lists & who will pick which child up from what at which time, but in the life we currently occupy, we’re two almost-strangers str...

teeth. in this life, you want to tell me, “i’m sorry i didn’t know how to stop the pretending.” in this life, i want to tell you, “it’s all right. i’m sorry i let you stay despite the pretending.” (none of this ever happened.) - the letter i never sent III.

love does not need to be tragic in order for it to be good. the truth is that i would much rather stir to the feeling of his lips meeting my forehead at 5:30 a.m. every morning for the next eighty odd years than settle for living an eternity alongside someone who can’t even be sure where he left his promises the night before. - fuck those fairy tales.

you’re allowed to give yourself permission to fall harder than the wine does into the bottom of your glass, but make sure you do it while knowing there’s no one you should trust more than you trust yourself. - gut feelings are a survival tactic.