Saturday, March 30, 2013

Three Free Flow


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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