It’s past seven. I have broken my sobriety twice, if the first time didn’t count enough, and the cider beside me reeks of berries. I can only stomach fruits these days. My body burns, terribly so, each eye hums till the tulips double in sight and each finger becomes diminished by the slight intoxication I gave way to; my shoulder’s ache past relative relief and so in the intolerable heat of fermented cider, the shirt must come off. I am a woman once more. The breasts lean forward, the stretchmarks are abhorrent as they are lovely, and when I fall upon the corner of the shower, I can only find adoration in the body I can call my own. There is much I could say, defiantly, upon every marker of humanity and history and achievements and abilities, yet in a state where the alcohol has marked my singular body as a conscious being capable of love and generosity, each sip pushes me to the conclusion toward this feminine mind and artistic hands and moveable body. In some short, painfully illiterate way, here is everything I once felt about my co-existence of a woman, with a kissable mouth and rough skin.

i. I cared willingly, fervently, and when religion struck upon my mind, I prayed, in an odd stance and with sweaty hands, about all I could not heal. It was painful in such a small body, poised to know the ruinous emotions and overwhelming fixation of love, yet not act upon them. My body was theirs unknowingly, and rather irresponsibly, and by natural law, I enacted my own child-like persecution, where I dreamed one could read my mind and such unnecessary devotion would be met with consistent understanding; I homed confusion. Still, my sacrifice meant something to me, in tiny jersey’s and shoeless feet, and from this I had come to know of such strange intimacies we pursue so willingly. I was tender as every nine-year-old is, and in big ways, I never knew how to say ‘Thank you’ at birthday parties and on Christmas days, but in some small ways, I knew of you, which meant I still knew how you felt eight years later (and the way you made your breakfast each morning). If I think about this matter at all, it does little harm to know I have never been in love at all, but simply by the condition that I do love, and therefore it must exist.

From this, as a woman, fundamentally, the simple notion of love seems relatively simple for all the emphasis I put on making sure it was known; most people already know the love you feel for them, its awkward escapades and horrifying experiences are congratulatory. You love well enough, I should say, if doubts toward the softness of your hands ever claimed such tender inabilities, look in your medicine cabinet quietly, you will find all the remedies you salvaged just to save yourself once more.

ii. We believe we are crazy, sometimes excitingly, as if the blood on our teeth was as clean as water. War-like screams, collapsing chest and mascara tears, all we know coincides with all we’ve felt. It feels structural, as if each cell holds its own grief, some lingering territorial part of longing, until each atom lacks in further development. I could uphold every name given to me, should you question if I have cried harrowingly, devastatingly; it is similar to cell division sometimes, while others fail to beat out by odd laughter. Completely, it is simple, all of this is simple, we cry, scream, puncture, scrape, melt, sing, must we remember how they felt. We wish to know of the devastation, and if we are smart, remember what brought us to strikingly still.

[the window knows only the cold, the beating of wind upon its frame. I wonder if the heat will melt its body this summer.]

Girlhood. (!!!)

pajama parties. makeup and the use of our faces as dummies. princess dresses and our mom’s high heels. press on nails till our fingers bleed and glue that sticks to the sofa. the fear the first time we shaved; the liberation which follows; the begging of people’s hands upon hairless legs. our dad’s oversized shirts as nightgowns. hot, burning, blurring showers. rosy cheeks near the ocean and hopeful eyes in the forest. fashion shows and the swapping of clothes. showers of compliments in the bathrooms at bars; lipstick stains on each mirror as we walk out. the hugs, the touching shoulders, the grabbing hands to pull you into stores. mirrored grief and lack of apologies. selfies and videos and moments all hung upon the wall cased in spotlights. code names of the fruit we ate that morning to the boy we desperately look for. calendars, post-it notes, to-do lists, weekly chores and monthly meetings. the cheeky feeling of the hand over our mouth as we spill our secrets. matching outfits. spilled nail polish, wine, tears, dipping sauces, car keys, ice cream, white pants. the obsession of virginity and the relief that followed. journals and photo albums and burned letters. the synced nausea and white underwear that follow the cramps, panadol, hot water bottles, muscle relaxers, and the eventual fetal position. the anger turned to sadness we held toward our moms; they were girls once too; they could have still been girls now. telling everyone the price of our new shirt we got on sale. flowers, in excessive, in every color, on some continuous loop which holds the remnants of heartache away. our intelligence and the dreams that follow. holding love between the skin on our fingers, knowing it was enough, in some way, in some light.

[Pause, once more, the shirt is coming back on. I digress.]

GMT 21:00, Apartment 1, City Center

(the difference in name is by want and honed acceptance.

the mind has always been more flexible than the body)

ME

Is it pleasureable? You know,

(pause, some sort of exasperated sign)

was any of it pleasureable?

MYSELF

Were you happy? I am failing to understand the question. Were you happy with the outcome. Was this what you wanted?

ME

(confused in the manner of her question, she can only lean upon the frame of the bed)

That is not really a question. I am happy all the time, you know that very well. I don’t see how any of that matters when it is pleasure I am seeking to understand. I don’t think where this has any place in our conversation. It is unknowing, like some spineless creature with no care of those around them. You can’t want if sacrifice has to exist.

MYSELF

(always smiling knowingly, she knows herself so well)

What do you want? Think slowly, like some spineless creature, as you call it, and if they had no care in the world, what would they want?

ME

(her pause is predicatable and depressive. rather inconsolable in the possibility of the question)

I would think of them as greedy, selfish probably, with to much attention to themselves. Maybe sinful to some people, I wouldn’t know who to hand my desires over to. Its some overflowing laundry basket, and quite frankly, I don’t have the time to seperate all the colors and whites. What’s the point anyway, if they are my wants, they could live in the same soapy water, for all I care.

(pause. she is conflicted ones more. her body turns

away from the speaker, a clear line to the city outside.)

Should I care?

MYSELF

You could. I am in no position to point out such cares for you. Ultimately, your desires will slowly die with you, along with each passion and secret dream you have written about in your journal, and while you think you are doing some justice to the world, maybe even to yourself, you are too big to fit back into the box of self-repression as a term of endearment. You are older, not as malleable as a child, yet not old enough to simmer in lost opportunities, and while you think your life is over because everyone else has moved on, you still have to fend for yourself. How are you going to do that? You could care, unabashedly about everything and everyone, but what do you want?

ME

(she paces, clear on what she wants, but one more question must be answered)

What about my mother? What did she want? Could you tell me?

MYSELF

(She should have known such a question would appear.

All she can do is smile kindly)

Such questions hold irrelavance, my dear. If you can do my the favor of answering the question, I fear my time is limited. All I wish is to hear all that you have wanted. Could you give me something so little?

ME

If I must. I want to be nice.

MYSELF

(astonished, she interupts seemingly frustrated)

That can’t be…

ME

(Interjects)

And weirdly strong, like you look at me and you wouldn’t know all that I have went through. And I want to love myself, annoyingly might I add, that I make myself blush when I look in the mirror. Oh, and maybe a little greedy, where I am the first to take a shower, or eat, and maybe I leave the dishes in the sink overnight, because who else is going to do them or really who cares? I wouldn’t really know what to do with myself. [pause] I think I would be happy then, brilliant even, and even when time did sculpt my face and make me knarly per se, I would know who I was. I would enjoy all the time in the world with myself. Who wouldn’t want to be someone so radiant?

MYSELF

Then, everything will be pleasureable. Or, by the way you’re looking at me, I am guessing you want to know if you feel the pleasure, am I right?

[slight nod]

Well, that I don’t know. Maybe you have always felt pleasure and never knew it. Maybe it has never left you like you thought it did.

[a quiet smile]

You know, you never left yourself? You were always here. What is to say about those desires to not wash dishes tonight? I don’t think that was spontaneous, nor do I think you have even recently felt like that. You, the person in front of me, has continually smiled and dreamed of momentous events and found ways to feed all the clothes you currently own. You were never not whole. You were you.

(They both stare at each other. ME can only nod, gently, before she begins to look for her stuff, gathering her phone and keys upon the bed, as she stands up to head to the door)

MYSELF

Oh, and before I forget, when you asked me what you mom wanted, she was very short with her answer. She just wanted you.

[The cold has gotten to me. I must leave quietly, tonight.]