Problematic Petting: The Insatiable Need to be Bewitching

I must swallow them before I swallow me whole.

They notice.

They must notice.

Distaste fills my mouth as I hush between my lips—I let them finally know—that they are all mere token pieces of play in my sinister game. They are my mirrors. They serve me well. I become afraid of me too. We all should be fearful since this is a pretty lie. I hope they won’t fall down and break, lest my image turns into a million shattered memories, just so sloppily strewn about, uncared for and writhing for more attention. Like a bug flailing on its back. Don’t step on me with bare feet. Let me bear the weight of this to you:

Quality control is what I’m working on, but I can’t seem to make this interaction anything of quality. I’m too stubborn, but I’m cute. I’m too innocently cunning like a surreptitious smile in between bobby socks. Lascivious, but polite.

I don’t want to interact with you genuinely, rather look you up and down and up and down until you inevitably slip and slide right into me. React to me. Make me feel alive. I can make you live, I promise, if you give me this one thing. I crave the validation of the conquest, the vibrant existence in becoming your #1, your darling babe, your goddess—be it but one night! I want to be your lark. I want to be The One. I want to call you in as if by some “damned magnet!” you curse, yet fall into lustfully, willingly. I lust lust lust and crumble as a cripple at even the slightest idea of this not coming true, of reaching in agony to be as enchanting as the moon but falling dumbstruck among the stars. We must cure mediocrity.

I. Must. Be.

Would you laugh if I said I would like to exist in some kind of odd continuum in which I’m just static there in slow motion like some rap video? Some moment in a movie where the both the narrator and the audience alike gather in this moment of rapture, and just stare at that girl on the screen. “And she was perfect…” he said, as something like Louis Armstrong or Billie Holiday played and there she was stamped in black and white, timeless, graceful, classic. And you were playing along in the rapture too, like a kid in a sandbox, unraveling beautifully at that world. You just couldn’t believe the fantasy.

Many people tell me that I’m “smart” as if to ease some kind of ailing part of me that simply feels like a dumb floozy. The problem is that I am too smart. I know exactly what to do, I know exactly what buttons to push until they come loose. I pretend like I don’t know. This adds to my intelligence.

But what you don’t know is that it hurts inside, this cringe of desperation that grips every curve of my body like some disapproving man, whipping me to work harder. I bite my lip—there you go.

Because then there are those who don’t even care. They don’t even look–they don’t even notice! They don’t even budge, they don’t move. These are the disasters, the oceans of wonder, disbelief and curiosity. Why I couldn’t strike their chords with my song. Why I cannot puncture them I’ll never know. I grumble and the brows become furrowed, like Daddy wouldn’t let me have an ice cream cone before dinner.

The mirror and I fight. I look into it harder. I become some monster of a big cat with saliva dripping off my fangs, hoping for a kill. If not tonight, then I’ll slump in my pillows defeated and do all the things that normal people do—brush the teeth, put on an ugly tee shirt, set the alarm.

Nothing will wake me up. It’s too much a pleasing dream in which to be fettered.


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