Clockwork Girl

What a failure to be hated by the only man who ever loved me.

I wish I could craft a clockwork girl,

one with gears spun from borrowed stardust,

a silver smile wound tight with laughter,

so she could take my face and live my life—

so seamless, so perfect,

no one would ever know I was gone.

She would hold my mother’s hand,

trace soft circles into my father’s palm,

whisper the love they always wished to hear,

and when they looked into her glass-polished eyes,

they would never see the absence,

never hear the silence where my soul once was.

And I—

I would drift into the hush of forgotten things,

dissolve like a raindrop slipping into the lake,

let the water pull me under,

limbs swaying like Ophelia’s in the twilight hush,

weeds twining around my wrists like old regrets.

Or perhaps I would summon the asp,

let its fangs press into my skin like a lover’s final kiss,

venom burning a lullaby into my veins,

a requiem fit for a failed Cleopatra.

Would history still whisper my name

if I faded before the dawn could touch me?

Or—maybe I would climb the silver staircase,

take my place beside the rabbit on the moon,

a quiet ghost bathed in celestial glow,

watching over you from a sky too far to touch.

I would make myself into moonlight,

spilling like milk upon your sleeping face,

tracing the curve of your cheek,

soft as a prayer, quiet as a wish.

Or I could disappear into the forest,

let the moss cradle me where no one can find me,

let the ivy take my name,

let the roots grow through my bones

until I am nothing but the hum of the earth.

I would not be a burden.

I would not be a shadow in your world.

I should go far, far away

from the person I loved most in this world—

such a shame, such a failure am I,

that the only man who ever loved me,

I managed to make hate and despise me as well.

He held out his hands, and I gave him ruin.

He spoke my name, and I turned it into ash.

So tell me, love—

if I vanish into the night,

will you finally rest easy?

Will the world feel lighter,

without the weight of me in it?

Or will the stars still tremble

with the echo of my name?

© 2025 Inaba Tarek