Birkensnake 6

Waking is always a bit jarring. I lay there for a few seconds not knowing who I am, hoping I might be somebody else.

My hands travel from my face, down my neck, to my chest, down my stomach, to my legs. I have never known this body. This is not me. Thank God.

Blood travels from my heart to my limbs like coffee from my stomach to my brain. I get up and stand in front of the full-length mirror that makes up my closet door. I am not me. I breathe. Even that feels different, lighter. My body, on the other hand, is heavier than I remember because I did not have this body to remember before now.

I’m a jock. I’m a fucking jock.

I obsess over every inch of my body until I begin to feel narcissistic. Then I turn around and look at the other half, my head twisted over my shoulder. You would think they would have figured out a better way to do this by now. I should set up a video camera that would project the image of my back in front of me. I should make a mental note of this for the life in which I will be an artist, for an installation.

My clothes will be tighter. That’s okay; I did not get this body not to show it off.

*

Everywhere I go, I can feel people’s eyes on me, though I suspect it might only be me looking at myself. The club is packed and men are easy. I bring a twink home. I fuck him. It’s over.

*

My hair is in my face. I blow it off, but it falls back into the exact same place. I bring my hand to my cheek, slide it down my neck, squeeze one of my tits. Then I insert my fingers into my vagina, because why wouldn’t I?

*

“I love your band.”

Men are easy. I bring a drummer home. I fuck him. It’s over.

*

The white coat floats around me like I have my own wind machine always just a few steps ahead of me.

*

The blade is in my hand. The hand is steady. The chest is sliced open.

My white-gloved hand slides between his ribs, becomes red. I can feel the heart beating against my fingertips.

*

The pharmacy has no secrets from me. The white pills fall into the palm of my hands like snowflakes on a tree branch.

*

My body lies motionless on the floor. My eyes are closed because to see the world on top of feeling it is too much. Tears still manage to escape and run down my temples towards the centre of the earth. The humanness of me.

*

I am what you want me to be. I’m nice, but not too nice; smart, but not too smart; I’m your type, exactly. I am those things so we can love each other, which we do, inevitably. Then, of course, I have to dump you, and I’m sorry, even though it’s actually your fault. I’m just that nice.

*

The blade is in my hand. The hand is steady. The wire is cut.

I open the door and slide in. More wires. Disconnect, reconnect. The engine starts. I am no longer here.

*

The river speaks. I cannot help but listen. It’s the weight in my right hand that reminds me of my task. When I hold the axe in my hands, it is my own hand I am holding, it is your hand I am imagining. I take a deep breath. The axe flies past my head and comes crashing down against the wood, breaks.

*

This home will be more window than wall, more outside than inside, more warmth than cold.