December 16, 2012
Dad came home at 2am and found me in the kitchen with the
sink light on. Stripped down to white bra on brown skin, blue jeans buckling
belly flap. Sharpie in hand looking down at my paper stub on the counter. I had
circled a number on what looked like to me a page of mixed numbers. Code. “Is
this what I make an hour?”, the rash orange sharpie blurted on the page. Cracked
red wine lips, I cried. I’m too young for a paycheck.
March 14th, 2013
In the black hills of my mind I’ve got death and cum
clouding my productivity. Who am I to the world to exist, to reside in this
wooden floored apartment? I mop up dirt that I cannot see. It shines on lacquer
and I feel better.
He can call me a dirty slut and sing Britney
spears before bed in the same night. I do it so I can know what my body is
capable of so I am not only holding myself at night, so that I don’t have to
wake up because he will.
My face clears for different countries. In Greece the
salt soaked up any restlessness that squirmed under my skin, I was content not having what I
wanted because what I did have was so great. In Portland my hair is full and
soft, berry blooded forager home within the forest.
Between the buildings of New
York that stand over me like parents I shuffle between responsibility and
carelessness. Scurry around the streets like the rats in the underground, “I’ll
never live in a place this nice”, I tell the glass displays in Soho. Some
people want nice things, my secret is that I know that they don’t last, a meal
is flushed down the toilet 24 hours later smelling the same no matter its price tag.
My mom says we need the thinkers, the coffee drinkers, the erotic
dreamers, pacing the room; I don’t do anything but remind myself of all the
people I have loved.
March 16, 2013
My face could fall in the pan I am staring at it so
intently. Metal on teflon, I was spooning Ibarra chocolate with coconut oil and
vanilla to make frosting. You have to keep stirring chocolate or else it burns.
I know this. Lisa is standing next to me looking too. We are making gluten
free cake; its Lisa’s first time making cake and her uncertainty taints the
creative process. She is talking to me about gender roles. “Anna wants to talk
about how women are portrayed in the media but I mean, there is not much you
can argue about that”, “Yeah”, I say. Recently my dad told me the real reason why him
and mom got divorced and it made me realize however much I want to
rebel as a feminist I don’t want to live without men. I don’t want to be my
mom. I think about diving into the pan. Why isn’t it thickening?
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