Medusa

I hear her words, but I'm listening to their interpretation, screaming liar in my head.

Words are all shiny and sympathetic when they are sarcastic as well as genuine. It's hard to tell the difference. She was so much like someone I used to know, I colored all her phrases with that old crayon, the one I hated. It was venom.

She spoke of regret so fluidly, like, "Oops! I was really hoping for this, but I'm sorry." It was so fake through my venom-colored glasses I wanted to vomit. Anger boiled over in me and rolled off my skin in waves. My hair nearly turned to serpents and my eyes nearly glowed as they glowered at her image. Would that I could turn her to stone.

I'm trying to hear her with optimism, as if she meant it, as if her past actions were merely a tantrum and she'd grown up since then. I smear on my lipstick, powerful red, taking charge of my emotions once again.

Patience is a virtue and I can wait her out one more time. Let her show her hand and prove her regret.

Or to stone turns my heart.