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.
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