I was the nettles that clung wetly, tightly, around your stupid little house, all quaint and unperturbed – I loathed it with my entire being – that stony façade that my half-hearted barbs never seemed to penetrate. My venomous tears oozed thickly, yet only smoothed out the imperfections in the brickwork, could never carve you into the shape I longed for you to be. I am so imperfect. I tried to mould myself into some lethal mystery you couldn’t resist, imagined you collapsing into my garrotte-armed embrace. I wanted to gobble you up, drag you down from your perch on top of the hill, down, down, into the feral tangle of weeds out of which I flung myself, I wanted to haul you underground and bury you alive, I wanted you to love me so much you stopped breathing and I wanted you to drown in me.
I was the hot tar that spilled on the road outside your house. Superfluous, ghastly; the ugly gloop of my pure, black hate dribbled all over the street, corrupting your lawn, your path, your front step. The stink of it drove everybody else away, and how I longed to encircle you, how I yearned for you to break out in blisters at just the thought of me, to hear your tortured screams as I marked your body. Your arms, your legs, your chest, your heart. Mine. Ruinous, ruined, I wanted you.
How hideous a feeling, how it filled me up! I sat in front of the mirror, watched as thoughts of you contorted my face beyond recognition, saw the animal in me dull my eyes and sharpen my teeth. I felt the ripple of gooseflesh and the shudder of adrenaline. I knew then, of course, that I hated you. It lurked in my heart, tightly coiled and hard like a peach stone. I seethed and plotted with this dull ache in my chest, spiking at the sight of you, and I wished that the roles had been reversed, that I had been the snake – would have fed Eve poison and watched her writhe, would have given you my love and watched you die, die, die.
Oh, my love – you, that house, that garden – I was the damp on your kitchen walls, I was the graves of all your pets. I was the rot in the cupboards and the mould on your bread. All this and so much more. I was the taint on your soul, the piss on your snow. Oh, my angel – I am sickness, disease, malaise of the heart – I am the Devil, wrenched into the light to pull you apart.