I dismissed her as a gossip girl:
Skimming the papers for stories of monsters in human form.
"Urgh, he beheaded them," she'd point out,
And not get the tone quite right.

She knew from the start just what part she would play:
In our games, she was Bulldog, then Mister Wolf, It,
A little too rough.
In class productions, she'd seek roles that raged and stormed, roles with a burning heart,
Though she never quite got the eyes right.

She lost touch after school. She moved house, job, job, city.
I heard she'd gone away.
Used to dream of it; we were more sceptical.

We all became gossip girls:
Read about fashion tips, dating tips, botox and boob jobs,
All had our idols in models and actresses,
Drifted through friendship groups, learned new names, forgot old faces.
Dreamt about living the life that the magazines showed us, all clamour and glitz.

One day, the headlines screamed bloody murder -- no changes there, then.
The photos were ruled by a woman: thirties, handcuffs, her smile not quite right.

(Urgh, she beheaded them.)