Monster

I did not know how to play the game when I was a child, and still don't. I don't know how to be human. I thought I'd somehow learned with time and devoted imitation, but then I discovered that I lacked one fundamental trait: love. Nonetheless, I've managed to stumble into other people's paths and walk by their side as though riding a roller coaster, my chest pounding dizzy with dreams. Were my feelings back then real or was it yet another simulacrum for me to feign normalcy? I'll never know—I don't think I'll try again, lest they find out what I really am: a hollow soul. An island. A horrible amorphous formation of dry rocks where no lost bird would ever want to land. I was banished into this cave in order to prevent more people from getting hurt, and yet I've slashed a few curious passersby with claws I've never been able to locate on my body. I watch them bleed to death and I don't understand what's going on, I don't understand the warm liquid splattered on my face. Every new presence is a menace. I'm not afraid of them but of what'll happen to them if they come any closer. Now you're looking at me with that compassionate face, confident that your infinite mercy will bring change to this mess. You're not the first but I do wish you were the last. I've heard "I don't bite" all too many times. I know full well that you don't, but I do. If I were you I'd run away. Now run. Run.

Isn't Life Funny?

And by funny I mean it's been telling us some awful joke that's turned everybody silent and's frozen spoons mid-flight. Party's over. Good luck staring at your shoes.

The Automated Girl of Your Dreams

Today I woke up to find the sky painted a pleasant pastel blue. In days like this one would want to go out and soak up the sun, but autumn mornings are filled with smoke and my lungs are a bit delicate, so no can do. I don't know how people survive here with all the slash-and-burn sort of thing going on. It's quite awful, I tell you. You know? I had taken up jogging at sunrise some time ago but had to quit because it was getting impossible to breathe, let alone run. It's such a shame.

So how are you doing? Fine? I'm doing fantastic.

(Sadness? Anger? Me? Oh, puh-lease!)

Promise

We were going to be friends. I was absolutely sure about that. I was going to teach him songs. I was going to go visit his father and play with him instead. I was going to write a book that he might have liked. A book about llamas. He was going to think of me as weird yet cool. One day he would trust me enough to ask me a question. Any question would be fine. Twenty years from now, I was going to call his father on the phone and say "I told you."

Now that the deluge has turned dreams into debris, I think I should still keep my promise, even if slightly different. Twenty years from now, I am going to call his father on the phone and say "I'm still here."

Her Morning Ritual

They sleep right on the floor. At least that's how the futon has come to feel now that it's old and flat. The alarm goes off at 6:15. He moans and twitches his mouth, trying to cling to the last bits of slumber, but when he feels her waist shifting under his arm, he has no option but to open his eyes and watch. Her getting up is a slow progression of body parts emerging bit by bit from a familiar underworld. Her left hand rubs her face rather violently and then brushes back her ruffled hair. A sudden jerk pulls her torso up like a puppet that's been suddenly picked up from the bottom of a chest. The subtle muscles in her arms bulge tensely under her weight. Her arched back plays tug-of-war against tiredness until her head falls forward. Now her breasts droop over the folds of her belly. Sometimes —when she lies on her back, for instance— they look like perfect domes made of pudding. He loves their malleability, how soft their skin feels—but wait, she is already hurling herself up and stumbling dizzily into the day. From here he can see the stubble on her legs. If he looked up, he would be able to catch a glimpse of cellulite dimples up her shorts. One step, then another, and she's gone.

When she sleeps, all wrinkles and bulges are smoothed down, safely concealed under the covers. He runs his hand down her back and tries to explain to himself how the fragility of this hidden topography becomes a revelation of strength every morning. She's never given a thought to those first minutes of her waking life, but as soon as she disappears it becomes clear that he can't wait for the next day to watch the spectacle all over again.

Erase Me

I hate it when they try to showcase “all sizes” in pictures of women (because they’re being all condescending, “embracing” “real women”) but still turn their faces into some sort of unrecognizable photoshop blob. The skin, our shield, our battlefield, is being reduced by the media to this pristine untouched satin sheet. Thus, even if they have the guts to display you—you with the saggy boobs, you with the bulky hips—, all signs of individuality (hair, scars, wrinkles) will be erased from you. We’re encouraged to achieve perfection through the removal of ‘blemishes’ because our skin is not meant to tell stories. Not only are we still lacking voice out there but our bodies do too.