non-fiction
I see mothers and daughters and they all resemble one another.
I see a man in a dungaree, which makes him look like a rectangular shape. I know that underneath the corduroy there is a slim, boyish body. A body that I don’t feel that often. It reminds me of him. He comes, he goes, he disappears, and I don't really care. It reminds me of how tight the skin was pulled over his hips, how my hands tried to touch every inch (there was so little of it), how I felt his bones, his muscles, his veins, his scars, the thick marks where the tattoos formed scartissue all over his sun browned skin. I knew where my white, milky skin did that exact same thing. On my thighs, which seemed not be tight around anything: just a soft mass with, apart from the tattoo’s, stretch marks that I like to touch, moving them from side to side. Wiggling them around. Tracing the different feelings.
I am not writing about you, I am writing the eulogy of this whatever it was. I feel like I am saying goodbye a lot lately.
Yesterday morning I sucked myself of you and I was surprised by how I tasted. It was so metallic, I tingled in my mouth.
My body is acting up. My breasts are uneven, like they belong to two different people. My stomach is bloated. There is something lingering inside me, and I don’t know what it is. There are no retrogrades that I can hold accountable, there is no hormonal imbalance that I can blame. There’s just me.
In January 2019 I took a trip to Gran Canaria. It was the last time I travelled alone. I was so afraid of everyone. I was so scared someone was going to kill me, or take me, and how I would never be able to get off this weird, volcanic island.
When I did make it home, there was a pit in my stomach that just wouldn't go away. I went to doctors, I got a scan: they didn’t find anything. I was just full of air, as if I was ready to float away.
A state of fight or flight, but I don’t know what or who I should be fighting or fleeing from. (All I know is fighting my body, and fleeing myself.)
My body is acting up. My breasts are uneven, like they belong to two different people. My stomach is bloated. There is something lingering inside me, and I don’t know what it is. There are no retrogrades that I can hold accountable, there is no hormonal imbalance that I can blame. There’s just me.
In January 2019 I took a trip to Gran Canaria. It was the last time I travelled alone. I was so afraid of everyone. I was so scared someone was going to kill me, or take me, and how I would never be able to get off this weird, volcanic island.
When I did make it home, there was a pit in my stomach that just wouldn't go away. I went to doctors, I got a scan: they didn’t find anything. I was just full of air, as if I was ready to float away.
A state of fight or flight, but I don’t know what or who I should be fighting or fleeing from. (All I know is fighting my body, and fleeing myself.)
While I am writing this, the air is heavy with the promise of rain, a man that is sitting behind me says: “Fuck, I’m so happy.” And I realise there isn’t a single bone in my body that wants men to feel happy. I hereby declare the end of Hot Girl Summer.
