They remain your best physical asset, unsullied by their near demise – your glory in their reincarnation. After six months of suspense, your period comes back – and your breasts.
You still look away from a mirror, but you want to live. You have been a receptacle all your life, and now you pour.
It is the best thing that ever happened to you. You get it anyway, and you will be forever grateful for this act of subversion that saves your life. You are not behind the wheel of this body. “We don’t need psychologists.” You are a teenager. Your parents won’t sign the forms to allow you this counseling. You cannot be a passenger in this body, no matter how small it becomes. READ: Love Songs to Make Your Heart Cry & Sing You know in this moment that you want to die. You know in this moment you are mentally ill. Though a good person has died, a teenager, this number, 89 makes you smile then sob. A friend dies, and you go to the scale after his funeral, crying all day. Shrunken breasts, fluttering eyelids, hands grasping out to rails, walls, your sister, air to catch yourself from falling as everything goes black. You will be 89 pounds when a teacher intervenes. The key to happiness is to be so slight you disappear. It is a thing you see so bloated and distorted looking at it is almost unavoidable, even for you. You almost don’t blame a grown man for looking at it. You don’t want to be a passenger in such a body. You look in a mirror at 16, and you see a circus monstrosity. The key to happiness is slight - a bony hip, a straight-line thigh. Years you believed your breasts were an enemy. It was years – years you worked your way through an epiphany that if you were small enough, you might disappear. They see you writhing, open, behind the wheel of your body.
#Depeche mode songs for halloween free
It relaxes you, a backwards free fall onto a plush hotel bed after a tense interstate road trip hours of bumper to bumper traffic: a near-miss crash, fatality. In this skirt, pink-cheeks, neon lights, the diary-pressed-petal preserved teenager you will always be, you are an exposed, small secret. You put your finger over your lips to honor it, and you drive them to the destination. It is quite a journey that has put you behind the wheel of that body. This is much more vulnerable than the peach they will see or the pink they will not. Standing before them, a naked triumphant soul in a schoolgirl uniform. What they think they are waiting for – the answer to the ultimate question of this universe: what color are her nipples? Peach, you could just whisper, as you take their money, but they are on a journey. Stiletto elongated limbs and plaited brunette hair, every cell of your soul exposed before you even contemplate unzipping the cream knit crop top, revealing your breasts. You are behind the wheel of your body here, and you are learning to drive. He would never go to this place, so you love this place. The way you design it: a tartan skirt, legs perpetually covered in a security blanket of knee high cotton. They drink it in, your body, what you allow them. A place of honest stares –- not pretense, surreptitious sin. –- not while he held the keys - a place where you braid the truth in your hair and tie it up with gingham bows. He would take it where he wanted it to go. Prohibited to learn to drive a car for the same reason you were prohibited to have a job – someone else wanted behind the wheel of this body. He drives you there, but he makes you a navigator You make a chauffeur of a boyfriend you love because he takes you anywhere your religiously-oppressed heart desires, to R-rated movies, coffee dates, your first assignations with your body, away from a house of horrors. 19 years of alt-right talk radio car rides, lectures on purity coupled with crude side-eyed glances at your breasts. You are behind the wheel of this body – a passenger in all ways until recently. Your brain hears it in the syncopations inside the beats of Depeche Mode before a lyric is spoken: you are behind the wheel of this body, and you have passengers. You lean down in five-inch platforms and knee socks, braids grazing your toes as you stretch, prepare. It is a wink that tells you on this Friday night, though you can’t see it yet, standing in the darkness, behind a curtain: you have a packed main stage.Ī wink that speaks to your muscles the way the music he plays right now speaks to your brain. It is a signal to you in the darkness and the noise. Not a lecherous wink about a body part and how he will possess it. Peeking through a window to the DJ who is winking at you.
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