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today i stared at someones scar and turned away when they looked back at me i've always been fascinated by scars in this modern city so full of the young while outside old men and women are crouching in grey mud, but i am so tired of paris because he stuttered to me in english and wanted me to come inside his room, don't worry my mother is not home and i was waiting for his hand on my arm so i could strike his face still covered with shaving cream and feel no remorse or guilt, and there is a man here now that reminds me of all the men i have rejected in my life and another that reminds me of all the ones i wanted and could never have and i remember i said this song makes me cry, but he didn't believe me and played it anyway and when my tears welled up and shone in the corners of my eyes he said, oh god i'm sorry and held me until the song was over.

Why I'm so Pale

When I was a little girl on vacation in Jamaica, I saw a white woman with a sunburned face, so overweight that she could almost float. She passed out in the boiling sand from heatstroke. We all knew it was caused by the layers and layers of hippie dresses sewn with mirrors. I remember the mirrors flashing like fish as her tiny husband dragged her back to their hotel room. Now when I think of beaches, I imagine her flat on her stomach, the miles of her back red like meat in supermarket displays, crying thick tears onto the borrowed sheets as her husband lays in the bed beside her, trying not to touch.