I remain conflicted as to how much she says or does is conscious.
Sometimes, she seems to have a dual personality, sometimes kind, sometimes ruthless, as evident in the poem in which she spoke about clawing and the poem she took down about trickling up, a confession of sort in which she blamed society trickling down turned her into something she never dreamed she would be, and her response to it is to use whatever means necessary to claw her way to get what she needs, “frank” and (as she put it it) “un-adult-erated.”
Yet for all that, for all her street smarts, she remains vulnerable, seeing herself as a Cinderella waiting for her prince charming to arrive with the glass slipper she left behind at the ball, because as she put it: “When it works it’s fucking spectacular.”
But as the last few months have shown, she does not know who she can trust – least of all me, and there is a kind of panic in that, as she needs allies, and yet as another poem put it, she’s been betrayed before and should have learned to expect it.
Oh, what a lonely life she leads, trusting too much in the wrong people, then trusting nobody when she is ultimately betrayed.
I am confused too by her sudden animosity towards me as expressed in her last poem when I clearly did nothing to deserve it (or at least not recently), leading me to question whether there was any softening in the hostilities I thought I saw over the last month. Is it all duality, she flickering between two or three personalities, angry then not, then angry again?
Or were those moments when she seemed kind, when her poems offered some measure of compassion simply traps to lure me into presuming something that does not exist, her rage so intense that she would feign some level of empathy when in fact she waits behind the mask with sharpened claws?
It is clearly best to retain distance and hope that rage might turn on somebody else.
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