In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

by Ashley Winstead

I wanted them to see perfection. I ached for it in the deep, dark core of me: to be so good I left other people in the dust.

My life was a narrative I couldn’t parse, full of conflicting evidence.

One life, full of mistakes, and not enough time—not enough chances—to do it right. It wasn’t enough.

I was the villain; I always had been. It explained everything—why I’d never gotten what I wanted, no matter how hard I’d tried. It wasn’t because life was unfair, or not working the way it should. I’d had it backwards my whole life: I wasn’t the princess, set upon by misfortune; I was the witch. And life had unfolded the way it was supposed to, giving me what I deserved.

Oh, how I wanted. I could finally confess that now, couldn’t I? Now that I was at my lowest, now that there was no use keeping the mask of indifference on, now that I had so little of myself left to protect. It was my secret shame: I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.