So I made myself a goddess out of stockinette and sinew and she is badly-stuffed and gamey with prehensile hair. I made her because I was bored one night and nothing felt like glee, not toads or meat or Romans or the shorelife of Little Sark, not coddled eggs or kittens or How Clean Is Your House. I didn't make her because I was scared, I didn't I didn't I didn't, but it's nice to have something to pray to when Butterface is near.
I spat in her mouth to bring her to life and up she stood like a shandied lamb, fully poseable on her pipecleaner pins. She moved into my secret mole and subsists entirely on clams, she talks backwards with her mouth full and she doesn't wash her hands. She isn't kind but she's free with her kisses and she always has plasters in her bag. I've sewn her glyphs in all my gussets and strewn penny sweets outside the Pink Ribbon, but she doesn't ask for much in the worshipping way. She appreciates my indolence and she prefers me fast asleep.
So now when I catch a glimpse of Butterface, with her crisp cruise wear and her snowman eyes, I don't feel so terribly bad. Not that I'm afraid of her. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.