Her mask slips off sometimes. It’s much more interesting when you see her without — or hear her without. Heavy strings, tin iron screeches, help me god help me if you can hear me please. Dressed up in lace, tarp draped over the dead crows birdcage, painted in rosy pink. It is falling apart so she scrambles to put it back on and she finds herself shattered into pieces. She does not feel it, nor have any opinion on it: it is a passing observation, a thought that is there and then not like The sun is out or The sky is falling. In a single minute (or less) she tries to make herself whole again, Frankenstein the glass pieces together: light, hot breath on your neck. Rocking glass baby back and forth until she stops crying please stop crying why won’t you stop crying. You should be terrified when a baby doesn’t cry because that’s what they’re supposed to do. “Please let me be okay.” She dies because she kills her and she is born again.
And as she dies she stuffs everything she’s feeling in a box and locks it shut with verse, but something small, hurt, hurtful, loveless wriggles out. A wounded deer’s final buck of desperation, self-preservation. A dagger to the heart of her glass doppelgänger. And it kills her again. She kills her again. She drowns throughout the entire song to the rhythm and everyone can hear her gasping for air. And somehow she’s shivering in the snow while the sun beats her down and makes her sweat. “Please make it stop.” The tape leaves her reeling with bruises. Is she singing to herself or to him? Well her words are a warning: do not go down the same path as me. I hate her. It is your fault for loving and choosing to love. Fault fault fault because at the end it comes down to fault. I hate him. Fault fault fault. Glass rings crystal sings. God’s silver spoon will ring on the doomed generation at the frequency of glass like an Aztec death whistle. Goodbye birdcage goodbye mask goodbye doppelgänger goodbye baby. I’m going to miss you baby