in wanting

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In the wanting there is buried a small seed, a space, of relief. She is working hard to Save Face with old habits that she’s long since introduced to new closets, where skeletons swing dance in the darkness. But there is something special in the flutter in her stomach– of his hands all over the space between ribs and hips. He makes her dance like a puppet. It is something like being high on being high, like being thin, and being high on being pretty, and then really being high because of it. In the afternoon the sun tucks behind a building and she gives a talk on the street corner about the importance of using your eyes to make men fall in love with you– like it’s the secret to a secret. In the wanting she is twisting and drinking because of the twisting and dancing while drinking while twisting. One evening before the sun goes down she reads to herself a small eulogy about her wanting and trying. And she thinks, mistakenly, that something in all of this is very brave.

photo: Jenavieve Belair

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