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[looks for you in everything] [finds you there]

im trying to be authentic and true to myself but she’s very elusive which is sexy but hard to work with

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found two kitties cuddling by the sea

your own voyeur

The body’s age is nineteen, but the mind is split into three.

There is a seven-year-old girl inside her, and she is screaming love me love me love me until her voice is hoarse and her eyes are full of bitter tears. She has scruffy blonde hair and wears her brothers’ hand-me-downs as she warms the bench at half time. Suspended, trapped in time and space, forever stuck sitting on the curb of the parking lot after her mother forgot her between the bread and cereal aisles. Love me love me love me until I am enough.

There is a fourteen-year-old banging against her cerebral cortex who scoffs and rolls her eyes and steals her mother’s cigarettes, who kisses men with tobacco-stained teeth and pretends she likes the way their hands clasp the small of her back. She’s irreparably tarnished, broken in seven places. Her teachers shake their heads and call her a case of wasted potential as she sips cheap vodka from a plastic water bottle and tilts back on her chair until her head spins. In three months when she discovers the concept of a manic pixie dream girl, she will internalise the performance of chaotic femininity until she loses all trace of the girl she once was.

And hidden deep within her psyche is a spinster with shocking grey hair who recites the passage of Margaret Atwood she learned one day in high school that she will never forget: “Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies…?” She peels pomegranates and clementines, letting the juice stain her cuticles, and watches the dust dance in the warm afternoon sunlight. She will be lonely for the rest of her life.

The body sits on a couch at the back of the party, listening to the thudding heartbeat of bass and sipping on a concoction that burns like bile in the back of her throat. Cinnamon whisky. Apple juice. Black leather and cigarettes. She’s out of cigarettes. The craving is an itch in the back of her skull.

Her friends have introduced her to a man she’s never met before, one that looks at her hungrily and won’t stop pouring her fiery drinks. The room spins in slow, hazy circles. He asks her if she has any tattoos, and when she removes her jacket to show him the inkblot on the back of her arm, his fingertips trace the skin as if he can feel the pain of the needles inside her. In another lifetime the softness of that touch would send sparks across her skin. But the fourteen-year-old inside her burnt away every nerve, every sense, every feeling in the recesses of her dark bedroom one night. Untouchable.

He’s watching her; she’s watching him watching her. Life in the third person – life at arm’s length – has a strange appeal.

You are your own voyeur, says the spinster.

Love me love me love me, says the child.

“I’m out of cigarettes”, says the body, downing her drink until the unwanted voices recede. Within seconds there’s one between her fingers, one clamped between his teeth.

There’s a section of blankness, of dark, terrifying, stumbling haze, then she’s leaned on his shoulder with a lit cigarette in one hand and a brand new drink in the other. There is brief, unintentional eye contact; she is terrified and slightly amazed by the intensity of his stare, the way he cannot tear her eyes away from the curve of her jawline, the wildness of her eyes, the strip of exposed skin between her shirt and jeans.

I bet he wants me, says the fourteen-year-old.

The body isn’t quite sure what she wants.

I bet he needs me, says the fourteen-year-old.

And then his lips are on hers and her drink smashes against the cold stone floor and the child is screaming at her, pounding against the walls of her brain in fear, because his kiss burns like motor oil and his hands grip her like he’ll never let her go. The child knows that her churning stomach is fear, not butterflies, and that this potent, base desire is nothing like love, nothing like the love she craves so deeply. But the child is small, and the child is weak, so when the fourteen-year-old forces her into a headlock and begins stubbing out butts on her skin, there is nothing she can do but howl like a caged animal.

His hands find the warmth underneath her jacket; she exhales a cloud of fog into the icy night air. There is a shock of coldness in his touch that releases her from this strange delusion.

You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman.

He pushes her backwards – a fit of passion – and her head hits the wall behind her.

You are your own voyeur.

There is pomegranate juice dripping from the spinster’s mouth. The fourteen-year-old, stunned into submission, drops the child in a crying heap. The body pulls from his grasp and stumbles through the crowd.

She finds the bathroom. The walls vibrate with the thud of the music, like a living entity. There are tears in her eyes. She could watch herself cry, watch the emotion sink and splash and bend across her face, watch it furrow her brow and tighten her jaw and admire the way her mascara stains her cheeks. But she’s tired: the child is tired, the fourteen-year-old is tired, the spinster is tired, the body is tired. Tired, and so, so lonely.

Love me love me love me love me.

She stares into the mirror, searching for a sign of life, but the body does not recognise itself.

Barnard Bulletin, New York, November 22, 1938

Miss Bellum vs Sedusa The Powerpuff Girls (S02E13) “Something’s a Ms.”