fragment

Feb. 8th, 2008 10:25 am
pantryslut: (Default)
This is why we all have two, five, twelve and a half resumes now: we are always working the angle. We are always working. We are always moving and never at rest. Like sharks. Like shrews, we must eat our body weight multiple times over, every day, or die. Like industrious ants, like the frigate bird who never lands. We do not hibernate. Bears and hedgehogs, rattlesnakes, bats, they're out of style. Global warming has made them obsolete. Why sleep? Sleep is for losers and those immune to caffeine. You live on M&Ms and zeal, and you may have bags under your eyes but that's what plastic surgery's for. Put on your best face. Put on your wing-tips. Go get' em, tiger.
pantryslut: (Default)
I miss climbing out the kitchen window onto the small porch-like roof area
between buildings, covered with tarpaper, the place I never saw by
daylight. You would share your cigarettes with me, and we would sit on the
wire-backed kitchen chairs, two chubby shy girls ditching the party for
our own shared purposes. I had a small but pure crush on you, on your knee
boots and your false eyelashes and the stubby nails on the hand that held
that burning ember.

How can it be that we only did it -- Twice? Three times? Six cigarettes,
at most?

Sometimes I am so disconnected from what I want. I haven't heard from you
in so long. Those parties, they aren't happening any more. I don't know
your phone number or even your name. I don't know what I would want except
your company, again, your sly grin and your ability to evoke, with just a
cigarette, the sense that we were sharing a secret.

Sometimes I think I still smoke in the hopes that I might see you again.
pantryslut: (Default)
It occured to me that I'd never seen her smile. A strained rictus imitation, on occasion. And still, rarely. Most of the time, a scowl or what she might think was an intense, sexy pout. A smile was too vulnerable, too genuine. She was all about the pose.
pantryslut: (Default)
One day it occurred to her that upon puberty, it was like a package of femininity had been given to her for use and safekeeping. Wrapped in brown paper without any markings as it was, and so heavy in her hands, it could be anything. It could be a weapon. It could be a bomb. It could hurt someone, and that someone might end up herself. Someone had forgotten to give her the manuals. She had to learn to become a femininity munitions expert all on her own.
pantryslut: (Default)
She is crying as they crop her hair short. They scrub her face with harsh soap until all traces of paint are removed. Nails are clipped short. One of them rubs smudges of dirt into her cheeks and behind her ears. A single tear scrapes a path clean.

They dress her in worn, baggy clothing, a work shirt with frayed cuffs, corduroy trousers. They hand her a rusted metal lunch container. "You're a son now, not a daughter," they pronounce, and push her out the door into the street.
pantryslut: (Default)
Red. Red. Red. Red. Green. Blue. Red.

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