graphic by kayleigh woltal
I prime myself like a pig for the slaughter. Exfoliate under the skin with rosemary and thyme. Coat myself in a sickly sweet honey rub, tighten up, smother myself with a glossy finish that cracks under the hot harsh light. Plump and pretty and not too fat— just enough meat on the bone to sink teeth into. Pretty like an unclaimed orifice, a body with no name. Waiting to be stuffed and served on a slider platter. On the other side of reflection I stand rugged and wild, a child free, not yet a girl. When I could still drag my snout through mud thick like glue, clumpy and solid. Stiff and rank and full of myself. Like the chase, the running from and after, the fresh imprint of footprints in the mud. Not made to be prized like antlers mounted in the attic, but roaming free, playing hide and seek. The metal clamp reaches my eye, squeezing then letting go. I resign myself to blue ribbon and inked lashes and painted lips. A corpse fresh for viewing.
A hog like girl who spends hours holding in her oink only to smear lipstick across her face when presented with her own reflection. Who urges to snort at inopportune moments, splash around in mud when she’s only just gotten clean. When they call her an animal, she feels most herself, both parties finally on the same page about their roles as predator and prey.
When I got too drunk to stand and hit my face on the brick wall, I was relieved at the sight of blood pouring out from my nose.