Why are you in such a hurry, little girl?
You can’t keep running away from a world where you have no voice. That world isn’t going anywhere. The bronzer on your jawline and the shimmery powder on your eyelids aren’t going to make the blind sit up and take notice. The heels chafing at your toes and rubbing your ankles raw aren’t going to give you the platform you’ve been falsely promised.
What are you hoping for, little girl?
You read as though your books could be ripped out of your hands momentarily. You write as though you fear your hands could suddenly
stop working. When you plead mercy of the silence that greets your tortured prose, your desperation cuts a ruthless line through your chest and bursts into the air like a flock of birds escaping a little boy with a slingshot aimed at their home. Yet when you sit down to pour it all onto the page in front of you, your colours are muted, your lines are uncertain, and the disappointing slip of paper eventually finds its home amid the bills and the torn up to-do lists in the recycling bin.
Where are you going, little girl?
You wander the city in your best camouflage, standing out like all the other girls do. You get your hair cut short and stare superciliously down your nose at all the imagined slights you’re dealt. Your muscles strain from the quick clip at which you assault the pavement, pushing from one crisis to the next, but your mind only relaxes when you step onto a treadmill, racing to nowhere at 6 miles an hour.
Who do you want to be, little girl?
You step off the scale and pretend to yourself that you don’t care a whit that the number has crept up by 0.2 since the previous day. You’ve polished and scrubbed and washed until you’ve run the gamut of cleaning products under your sink and run out of hot water. But even the innumerable screens nestled in the room must wink off for the night eventually, nestled in a careful imitation of order and meaning. And when the neon digits on your dollar-store alarm clock announce that it is now two thirty-seven in the morning.
Who are you, then?
Photogapher: Ionan Lumis