but I am work. I have goals. I am driving through space to reach them.
My goal for the night: 95. I drink ice water. I urinate, fill, empty, fill, empty, fill, empty.
It is about personal purity. It has to be.
Someday I’ll be a perfect black body. I’ll be perfectly smooth and white. I’ll be obliterated.
Dark matter. Antimatter. Unseen, unfelt, unmatter. I unbind myself.
I don’t matter. I am matter. I matter. I’m in the mirror.
If you touch me you have to hurt me, John. If you touch me, I’ll be hard.
I want you to touch me.
Even if I don’t want you.
I want you to hurt me. Make me absorb your radiation.
I am a diamond. I’m a diamond becoming myself.
Under pressure: the hardest.
Material.
That I will be the most valuable thing is predetermined.
I’ll be perfectly clear and luminous.
I am hated. I’m a genius.
I’m perfectly smooth and white. I am rough. I’m full of craters.
I am one long line of everything you hate.
I am made of so many lies.
You see through me already.
I have curves. I have mixed feelings about curves.
I want to be perfectly straight and simple and complex.
I want you to want to touch me. I want you to worry about me. I want your attention. I want you to fill me. I’m empty.
I make you do it.
I make you bad.
I want you to empty me. Make me feel like nothing. Tell me I’m nothing. I feel nothing.
Project all your untamed desires onto me.
I’m a star that radiates but is dead. I’ve been dead for a long, long time.
Let me be the reason you’re crazy. Let me love you.
Fall off your axis about me and my vacancy.
Show me how tortured you are.
We’ll go around in circles finding out why.
I’m sorry.
I’m a sorry excuse for a woman.
Here’s a list of things I care about: Givenchy. Hermès. Louis Vuitton. Prada.
I have never seen any of these things.
Jennifer Lopez. Donna Karan. Kristen Stewart. Demi Moore.
I have never seen any of these things.
Paparazzi. Scary Skinny. Açai berries.
I know nothing of any of these things.
I don’t care.
I have never seen you open and flayed like a raw piece of meat, which would make us equal.
Let me see you. Let me see what you’re made of.
You took us to a bar by the beach and all I did was panic.
We have nothing else to do here and it’s been dark for hours in Charleston where boats trace delicate white lights through the water and the horizon line is lost in the deep black of night. The air is chill. I have taken too many Zantrex-3 and I buzz all over. I’m sweating.
I’m sorry.
My skin is numb and smooth and wet, like the mouths of the people around us. They eat peanuts, onion rings, jalapeño poppers, soft pretzels with cheese and melted garlic butter.
I hate that I’m material.
Are you sweating? John asks me.
Maybe, I can’t feel my fingers.
You’re hungry. Eat your salad.
The breeze from the ocean moves your hair and for a moment I think I love you and then I realize I don’t know you.
I’m sick.
Maybe you’ve had enough to drink.
I rise and I sink.
Just sit down. Are you okay? You need to eat. Have some bread.
No, I’m not. I have to go. Where’s the bathroom?
Inside.
I’ll be back.
John pushes my water toward me. I see his fingertips wet through the glass and I picture them on my face. The sight of his flesh makes me dizzy.
You’re drunk.
You’re drunk.
Yes, I’m drunk. But so are you.
You promised.
I lie.
Thank you for telling me.
He swallows the rest of his beer in a single swig and ordersanother. I watch the waitress look at him longer than she should. My heart is racing. My legs are weak.
I’m crying.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
You’re breathing right now.
I’m going to die.
Of course, but not now. You have time.
It’s a matter of time.
That’s right.
I feel that everyone is looking at me. They masticate their food. They think I’m funny. They’re all as fat as I could be.
I’m ugly. Don’t touch me.
I’m not.
Leave me alone.
I’m over
My goal for the night: 95. I drink ice water. I urinate, fill, empty, fill, empty, fill, empty.
It is about personal purity. It has to be.
Someday I’ll be a perfect black body. I’ll be perfectly smooth and white. I’ll be obliterated.
Dark matter. Antimatter. Unseen, unfelt, unmatter. I unbind myself.
I don’t matter. I am matter. I matter. I’m in the mirror.
If you touch me you have to hurt me, John. If you touch me, I’ll be hard.
I want you to touch me.
Even if I don’t want you.
I want you to hurt me. Make me absorb your radiation.
I am a diamond. I’m a diamond becoming myself.
Under pressure: the hardest.
Material.
That I will be the most valuable thing is predetermined.
I’ll be perfectly clear and luminous.
I am hated. I’m a genius.
I’m perfectly smooth and white. I am rough. I’m full of craters.
I am one long line of everything you hate.
I am made of so many lies.
You see through me already.
I have curves. I have mixed feelings about curves.
I want to be perfectly straight and simple and complex.
I want you to want to touch me. I want you to worry about me. I want your attention. I want you to fill me. I’m empty.
I make you do it.
I make you bad.
I want you to empty me. Make me feel like nothing. Tell me I’m nothing. I feel nothing.
Project all your untamed desires onto me.
I’m a star that radiates but is dead. I’ve been dead for a long, long time.
Let me be the reason you’re crazy. Let me love you.
Fall off your axis about me and my vacancy.
Show me how tortured you are.
We’ll go around in circles finding out why.
I’m sorry.
I’m a sorry excuse for a woman.
Here’s a list of things I care about: Givenchy. Hermès. Louis Vuitton. Prada.
I have never seen any of these things.
Jennifer Lopez. Donna Karan. Kristen Stewart. Demi Moore.
I have never seen any of these things.
Paparazzi. Scary Skinny. Açai berries.
I know nothing of any of these things.
I don’t care.
I have never seen you open and flayed like a raw piece of meat, which would make us equal.
Let me see you. Let me see what you’re made of.
You took us to a bar by the beach and all I did was panic.
We have nothing else to do here and it’s been dark for hours in Charleston where boats trace delicate white lights through the water and the horizon line is lost in the deep black of night. The air is chill. I have taken too many Zantrex-3 and I buzz all over. I’m sweating.
I’m sorry.
My skin is numb and smooth and wet, like the mouths of the people around us. They eat peanuts, onion rings, jalapeño poppers, soft pretzels with cheese and melted garlic butter.
I hate that I’m material.
Are you sweating? John asks me.
Maybe, I can’t feel my fingers.
You’re hungry. Eat your salad.
The breeze from the ocean moves your hair and for a moment I think I love you and then I realize I don’t know you.
I’m sick.
Maybe you’ve had enough to drink.
I rise and I sink.
Just sit down. Are you okay? You need to eat. Have some bread.
No, I’m not. I have to go. Where’s the bathroom?
Inside.
I’ll be back.
John pushes my water toward me. I see his fingertips wet through the glass and I picture them on my face. The sight of his flesh makes me dizzy.
You’re drunk.
You’re drunk.
Yes, I’m drunk. But so are you.
You promised.
I lie.
Thank you for telling me.
He swallows the rest of his beer in a single swig and ordersanother. I watch the waitress look at him longer than she should. My heart is racing. My legs are weak.
I’m crying.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
You’re breathing right now.
I’m going to die.
Of course, but not now. You have time.
It’s a matter of time.
That’s right.
I feel that everyone is looking at me. They masticate their food. They think I’m funny. They’re all as fat as I could be.
I’m ugly. Don’t touch me.
I’m not.
Leave me alone.
I’m over
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