Tears silently spill down her face.
She doesn't do it often.
There is no need to.
She has you. She has chaos.
Only sometimes you and chaos aren't enough.
The predator in you
sees Drusilla's tears as a weakness.
To be exploited, mocked.
The part of you that should have died won't let you.
So all you can do is hold her in your arms.
As she cries,
Rendering you invisible.
Strange things bring
A workbasket in a raped parlor,
Overturned in a cascade of silk ribbons and bright silver pins.
A broken dolly.
A torn prayer book.
A man's shattered pipe.
Sometimes Drusilla sees
Sometimes Drusilla does not
As she rampages through respectable homes, romping with chaos;
Tearing down curtains, ripping out throats.
Feeding with delight,
Playing bloody games.
When Drusilla sees
these odd things, she sits down, plump.
On the floor, cradling the broken doll, Miss Edith forgotten -
The shattered pipe, chaos in aftermath,
In a tangle of bright ribbons, the torn book.
That's when the tears start.
Large, round, and silent.
So you join Drusilla
among the remnants of your shared meal.
Trying not to remember what it was like
To belong to such a place of order as you cradle her;
Of what you left behind.
Just one more of Liam's broken toys,
Sitting in the ruins, watching Drusilla's tears.