Of a Forgotten Past
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An ink-stone celebrated it’s hundredth birthday in the hands of a young girl.
It felt the fire burning in the young girl’s soul; its simple, mindless existence sought to become the most beautiful thing it knew.
It loved the her dark hair. She could sense the admiration, the jealousy others held for that beautiful hair.
It loved the girl's dreamy almond-shaped eyes, which would narrow in concentration whenever she worked. It shone with determination and passion- things so foreign yet so attractive to the spirit.
It loved the girl’s cheeks bony fingers, short uneven fingernails stained with ink. It loved the way she smiled, the way she spoke.
It loved her.
It became her
She took her place
It wasn’t supposed to be her
She stole her story
She gave herself the name
She misses the girl
But it is also she who killed her
Sometimes she would laugh at the irony
It was aptly named, very much so
She misses her family
Her family, whom she knew, once upon a time ago
Imposter
I am sorry
Her eyes are black as coal
The eyes are the windows to one’s soul
Everything she touches is tarnished
Dirty, dirty little not-god, not anymore
Murderer
Soot trails after her fingers, she dare not touch the pristine imagine
Time waits for no one
But time does not heal all wounds
She sees them she does
Sorrowful eyes, anger, hatred at an imposter
Imposter
Please don’t look at me
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“Tsukumogami are legendary creatures; items and tools from everyday life, which have became animated. Some state that tsukumogami are becoming alive after their 100th “birthday”, if the object in question has not been used or thrown away in cold blood. They used to be described as extremely evil and in search of vengeance.”
She has always been an outlier; tsukumogami don’t live long after all, they tend to fade away in obscurity and let another take their place, centuries after centuries...but she is still there regardless.
She extracted her vengeance, yet she still remains.
Drifting in this transient world.
She thought herself as nothing more than a particularly resistant tsukumogami, until they came- returned- to her.
Her children- or who once were her children in another life, another time.
They gave her a purpose again.
She stopped drifting.
“Mother.”
“But I am not-,”
“Please.”
“Okay.”
