Everything we love fails, I didn’t tell my students, if by fails we mean ends or changes, if by love we mean what sustains us. Language is what honors the vanishing. Or is language what slows the leaving? Or does it only deepen what we know of loss?
Our culture deliberately socializes women to be taken in. We condition girls (explicitly! Not even covertly!) to believe that if they're not sexually attractive, they're nothing. They're garbage. They might as well not exist. We reinforce, over and over, that their attractiveness has an expiration date, so the only thing they can do is desperately leverage that attractiveness while they can.
The fish in the fishsticks think to themselves This is not what we meant to be.
At night, salamis are removed from the shop window and stored in a secret location. At night, the world and its salami slices are moved elsewhere. The same with the pastries that are my soul. I too have to be in another place —my body—an empty carcass a shop window emptied every evening, a container no one absolutely no one wants to steal.
What if I forgave myself? I thought. What if I forgave myself even though I’d done something I shouldn’t have? What if I was a liar and a cheat and there was no excuse for what I’d done other than because it was what I wanted and needed to do? What if I was sorry, but if I could go back in time I wouldn’t do anything differently than I had done? What if I’d actually wanted to fuck every one of... those men? What if heroin taught me something? What if yes was the right answer instead of no? What if what made me do all those things everyone thought I shouldn’t have done was what also had got me here? What if I was never redeemed? What if I already was?
I can’t take another moment thinking of the rough of your jaw against my shoulder.
Now it’s ten months past “you ain’t got nothing I never had,” and all I can do is press my hot forehead into the inside of a dirty window and squint at how people find it romantic when the blue sky turns deep purple like a swollen bruise.
She wonders idly what it’s like to be a cigarette sometimes, to be held gently with his fingers, to be pecked by a man’s lips, to be inside his ribs and burn his lungs, to be the reason for his death.
The world imprisons its people by labeling them at their birth, like a brand.