Mask
As a young girl, I would run through the winding streets of Gion with a sinister hannya mask over my face. I merrily slithered into the despotic role of the jealous female demon and chased my acquaintances with maniacal glee. The cicadas would hum in the midday heat as my sandals slapped against the ground in hasty pursuit of prey. When my revelry was over, I’d return my beloved mask into my mother’s lacquered cabinet. As a woman, I can no longer distance myself from the role with such ease. Although my countenance is that of a painted doll, envious rage has putrefied my innards. I stalk him through the shadowy alleys of Gion, illuminated only by the occasional paper lantern. I wonder if the dull clop of my wooden shoes reaches his ears. Fixation… my unattainable desire… at what point did I turn into the devil?