There once was a woman
Whose body was cursed.
If she dare bear a child,
It would die before it’s birth.
Through madness he krept,
The monster of dark,
He promised a child
To ease the woman's heart.
A daughter at last,
She wept with joy,
Not knowing at once,
She was just his toy.
There once was a creature
Who was once a girl.
In past, she was just a kid,
Hidden from the naïve worlds.
Destined to grow thin,
And drink from the stars,
Walk amongst the darkness,
And obliterate all.
Raised to be kind,
She wants to create,
Not destroy the mind.
Girl with many names.
Mine; Lazari, Lazarus.
Red, Jerome, Jack, Emma, Chell.
Fran, ‘Ronica, Ash.
Steph, Val, Kes, Dipper, Daine.
Raised to be a monster,
Mind young and old both.
The girl threw her pen down with a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to write another stanza ever again. The stress she went through trying to figure out the right word? Big Nope.
She closed the book.
The first poem was one she was born knowing. Whenever she was alone, she felt the urge to sing it. The urge occasionally came around others, but wasn’t as uncontrollable. The second poem happened after she decided to leave her old life behind and try and be normal. After fighting through a nightmare hospital, and things went back to how they were, the second poem popped in her head. She ignored it, and before long, her life became weird. She realized her destiny, and it all made sense. She decided to write the poem down, and she found the more she wrote it, the less she wanted to recite it. There were other poems afterward, but they didn’t have as big an impact on her life. She knew each moment the poems chronicled or foretold had greatly shaped her lift, but the urge to recite them was very controllable after a few years after the event, almost non-existent. But the last poem was the one she wanted to scream from the rooftops at the moment. So, she wrote it down. She found the largest notebook she could, and didn’t stop writing until it was full with the same poem. Each insignificant poem got this treatment if it was ever one that she felt the urge to sing. Because of this, the urge almost never came when others were around. And for that alone, she was grateful.
However, the new poem confused her.
The names were all the ones she had called her own at one point in time or another.
Except for ‘Ronica. It was a nickname she hated. It was Veronica. Jerome was also wrong, but for a completely different reason. (Jeromy, not Jerome.) But she guessed that it would have ruined the syllable count if she had her full names there.
6, 5, 7, 7, 5, 5, 6, 6, 5, 4, 5, 5.
Each of the most life-changing poems had those syllables. The second one even had the same line ending punctuations. She supposed it could mean the event coming up would be just as important, but maybe was going to change everything?
Yeah, she had no clue.
Why she was reading so much into full stops, she didn’t understand. It wasn’t like punctuation was important, or would change everything if there wasn’t an extra comma.
They were also in order of when they happened, which was fairly impressive.
Raised to be a monster,. That line was obvious. In her youth, she had hurt a lot of people.
Centuries older,. She was many millenia old, chronologically, but she supposed that didn’t match the syllable count either. Although an argument could be made that she has only been awake for centuries.
Mind young and old both. That was also simple. She became immortal too young. She had trouble not acting like a little kid on a sugar high, or like the war vet in zombie movies who thrives in shit conditions because they’ve already been through hell, and this is a walk in the park to them. Because technically, both are true. Literately.
But those were only the lines she understood.
Baby hero,. What? She wasn’t a hero. She guessed that if she ever became a hero, she would be a rookie, not used to fighting as a good guy. She’s fought for the good guys before, of course, but always for self-interest. That wasn’t hero behaviour.
Seeking atonement. Yeah, no. She regretted what she did, sure, but she wasn’t looking to make up for it.
Then was the most confusing line. Spider-Man, Spider-Man,.
Seriously, what the fuck is a Spider-Man?
Whatever it was, the girl didn’t want to go anywhere near it.
It was dumb, but she was an arachnophobe. But then again, disembodied heads with spider legs had a habit of following her around, so maybe it wasn’t too dumb.
Either way, she had to go to sleep so she could wake up early. Tomorrow, her class had a field trip, and she had to have enough time to put her binder and wig on, both lengthy tasks. And she had to get to school early, after making sure everything was affixed perfectly, so she couldn’t sleep in.
Because if Flash realised either existed, and took them off “Peter”, her trip to Oscorp would be ruined.
Next week, after school, the girl threw her bag down, scowling as she went down the elevator. Ignoring the voice coming from the speakers, she made her way to her room, and grabbed her pen and book, writing in her journal.
Fuck my life.
-Spider-Man, I guess?