How (Not) to Love a Monster

I can tell you that I love you how ever many times you want, sing it like a litany and a leitmotif in your presence, but there's no veracity inherent in repetition. I cannot learn an emotion like a nineteenth century schoolboy, reciting the Iliad again and again until it comes out perfect, every meter of every verse. But I can say the words if they'll make your eyes slip shut in pleasure and relief, sigh and let your shoulders drop. If I say I love you, then you are safe, you will insist.

But monsters like me don't feel emotions like humans - like you. You can run your palms along my skin and prick yourself on my thorns, and I can marvel at how velvet soft your flesh feels beneath my lips, but I'll always have fangs where you have teeth, and I'll always be hungry where you might be sated. I can tell you that I love you, with forked tongue and golden claws hooked into vulnerable meat. It won't even be a lie - but it can never be strictly true.

And if there are nights where you marvel, I have tamed the beast, as I lay stretched out and bloody at your feet, then that deception is all on you. I will wear the mask you give me, let you fuss with feathers and fine fabrics, dress me up like the solicitous romantic you've always wanted, serenade you with a script you wrote. They will only ever be words and stage directions to me, quietly stalking you through the forest of your illusions and waiting for you to stumble.

The Four Housewives of the Apocalypse

            The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (although these days they mostly drive sedans and minivans) meet every Wednesday afternoon at the local coffee house, about an hour before they all have to go pick up their kids from their assorted after-school practices.

            “How’s Cindy doing these days?” War asks Pestilence. “How did her audition for the dance team go?”

            Pestilence takes a sip of her free-trade rooibos, expertly avoiding getting her Burt’s Bees lipgloss on the china.

            “She made it of course – I never doubted all those ballet lessons would pay off, although she swears the deciding factor was the hiphop – silly, of course, technique is what really sells coaches – but I don’t know if I’ll let her join.” Her botoxed brow attempts to furrow. “They want her to get some vaccines before she starts coming to practices, and I don’t want to put those poisons in her body.”

            Death sighs over the double shot of espresso she’s nursing. Her long fingers are about the same shade of white as the cup.

            “The medical-industrial complex worms it’s way into everything,” she tuts. “I can’t tell you how frustrating it makes my job. I swear, I have to check my palm-pilot hourly to make sure the list of reaps hasn’t changed. One person will drop off because they went to the ER and another will appear because some pharmacist filled their prescription with a defective generic.”

            Famine pauses in reapplying her Estee Lauder lipstick, her skinny frap going largely ignored. “And they make our government pay for those complications, too! I swear, everyone just wants free hand-outs every which way!”

            “Did you hear they’re talking about slashing the military budget for this Obamacare boondoggle?” War offers up. “As though paying for drug addicts’ fixes is more important than national defense!”

            They all make accordant “hms” of anger.

            “This world isn’t for long at all,” Death says.

            They share small smiles as they all take sips of their drinks.