Ceiling fan storms - A Poem

The girl in the mirror

raises her wine bottle

in a toast,

swishing bitter spirits

down her throat.

She smiles

with stained lips.

i loathe her, that girl.

She smirks when i tug

at my belly fat,

When i scrape

crusted mascara

on my brittle lashes

i hear her share

the nasty secrets

only she and i know.

She creeps out of the mirror

when i feign sleep,

her footsteps like pin pricks

on my skin.

My hatred hangs deep

in my lungs,

the weight

of a 40-story building

made of steel and stone.

i dream of crushing her with it.

Her lifeless fingers,

nails digging

into the earth

from under the rubble.

i dream about running

jagged saw blades

across her ankles

to keep her still.

and smashing her skull

until her brains pour out.

i swing my bottle

at the mirror.

The ceiling fan blades

whip, whip,

in a strobing light storm.

The bottle shatters

in a screeching howl

and the girl falls

in an avalanche of glass.

Charcoal clouds rain

glittering shards that rip

the purple curtains,

rip cuts on my wrists,

rip the blood

from my face.