hyacintho testiculis

The rea­son you fear me,
the rea­son you la­bel me is be­cause I em­body all of the per­ils of young love. I am ex­cit­ing and new and un­known. You’re on your toes in con­ver­sa­tion. My wit is as quick as a whip and you en­joy the dance be­tween your­self and a new love. 

You chas­tise me for my age but fetishize it at the same time. You mock me be­hind my back to my col­leagues that I am trou­ble when you per­sue my body as a ves­sel for your mer­ri­ment. You ad­just your­self ac­cord­ing­ly main­tain­ing that I am pray­ing upon you like a stray sheep. 

But my dear,
you FAIL TO RE­MEM­BER who in­sti­gat­ed the attraction.
You FAIL TO RE­MEM­BER who drove the attraction.
You FAIL TO RE­MEM­BER the num­bers game you played in your youth and how you so of­ten struck out to girls like me, but girls like me were so pret­ty and so dumb, and I am not. 

And you were swept off your feet by the fact that I en­ter­tained your long­ing. You asked and asked and asked, “What do you want out of this? You know I have a wife.”

I don’t want any­thing. I did not in­sti­gate the af­fair. I only po­lite­ly en­ter­tained the idea. I will not play cat­a­lyst so that down the line, af­ter my body has been used as a ves­sel for your en­ter­tain­ment, you can­not jus­ti­fy your­self by say­ing that I am trouble. 

No mat­ter how much you tell your­self that,
how much you tell my col­leagues, you will know that you were a detri­ment to your­self with lust in your eyes. And I am not trouble.
 
 

—brit­tknee

Flom­mist Brit­tknee fre­quents cof­fee shops. Her sec­ond self, Car­la, fre­quents the work­sta­tion. Bleary-eyed. Fore­head scrunched. Fum­bling through your re­al­i­ty. March­ing through our own. Copy­right © 2016 Brit­tknee. Pic­tured: Kees van Don­gen, Por­trait of a Woman with Cig­a­rette (Kiki de Mont­par­nasse), cir­ca ¹⁹²²⁄₂₄, source.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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