Mystique

Memory plays the best and worst tricks of all. She makes us think we forgot something when our whole life at that point is a testimony that we remembered well. She makes us ashamed of how we spent our time, throwing ourselves over personalities who hardly mattered in the long run. Then that trickster wench shoots us with little sparkly darts of pleasure at times spent with those now detestable creatures and makes us repent. She makes us think LIFE it's such a mess, then somebody grins a whole smile at you and it's all exactly right and perfect! Her blood renews the ash of our thoughts, colours it passion red and alive, makes past perfect. She dogs Future's treads and swishes her skirt at every bend, as if she were the mistress of the streets. She is hot and heavy like custard pudding, or like a tight slap. She is cool like mountain air. She is warm like beach sand. She is sometimes a miser and sometimes a whore we thirst after and sometimes a bitch to be spanked and lynched out of existence. She is ours, the 'we' of 'me', mysterious me, Mystique.