I was sure I would meet you by the sea. Not merely the object of my girlish fantasies, but the one who planted them in my mind in the first place.

I realised one day that my fantasies were barely even from my own perspective. At all.

I tried to imagine you. Were you a wizard? King? Rasputin? Just a monstrous thief, imaginary plant in my brain, which was of course diseased by loneliness? Perhaps a childish symbol for the future wants puberty would bring. Or just something dirty, to keep in my ears.

I sent broadcasts out to you. I hoped one day we would meet and consume some wormy plums. You know what I mean. I told myself I was too contaminated by the material filth of this world, that was why I was cosmically stood-up, over and over again. Even if I scrubbed and scrubbed I would have a splinter somewhere, leaf molecules under my toenails. But I was never even alone enough to meet you where I had hoped.

I studied you and all of your friends more than anything. I wanted you to suck me up, suck me out and just be elsewhere. Elsewhere. I couldn’t understand Sarah. What a waste of magic.

If you ever existed, I shut you out with my wall of junk. My objects, my active ovaries and my breasts.

I think now you were just a disease of childishness but the stupidest part of me wishes you weren’t.


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