Work Text:
Let me get what I want, she whispers, and it's vapor on the mirror, a promise flimsier than paper. Already vanishing, a ghost of confidence she almost thinks was never there. Like clockwork she keeps brushing her hair, berating her outer layer. Belligerent brush strokes that snarl like her father, the language he taught her. But it's my fault, she knows, feels it keen in her bones. The boy with emerald ponds for eyes sees nothing, despite their depth, but despise. She has built her walls too high. The sentimental, sanguine girl is trapped inside. In a pink dress confined is a Jackyll Hyde. Down goes the brush with it's captives, several blonde hairs like the ones Olga left in the drain, and Helga wishes she could be a nothing but a pure shower rain, blissful and always recycled. Without pain. Obliterating stupid flimsy hair in the drain. Those dregs that remain that prove no one is perfect. Helga wonders if she can turn her self inside out, like a sweater covered in lint globs that was beautiful all along. She's wearing herself wrong. Coming on too strong. As she glides under the covers she flickers for a song, one that can turn the tables until this world is a dream and nightmares, not promises, are only steam.