Number 16 – Why do girls take so long in the bathroom

Cracking white neon bulbs.
Mirrors, others – they have tissues and mascaras in their bags. Mirrors, self – unwanted staring eyes no mascara on them. Pale ceramic – colors of a day of January. Bustle outside the female logo on the door – roaring city, an apiary.
My turn, dull hive breathe in, suck it in. Fingers looking for zips, bottoms, locks. Fingers caressing textures. Fingers encircling the brims of sexy, silly underwear.
Better caressing textures, denim, leather real leather, my skin. Better touching it only, imagining it. At its sight, it starts. Worrying on the curves of my backside. On the angles of my knees. On the propensity of my belly to create ring-shaped reminders of the chocolate I  didn’t deprive myself enough, on the amount of hair on my epidermis, my skin, a layer that can’t be taken off as those cheap trousers, I wish it could, retract, disappear, when facing the cold air, ceramic, my sight –  oh, it was easier with the latest piece of fashion on.
Breathe in, suck it in – long time before the urine meets the toilet. Too absorbed in thoughts, that self confident guy was disgusted by my flabby forearm no doubts, that blonde girl was noticing with satisfaction my curvy hips for sure. Bustle outside – there they are, talking about me. Shut my eyes, at least one of my senses can shut the world out. Breathe in, suck it in.
Under this cracking mirrors dull ceramic, my body, naked, the worries over it, amplify, double, sextuplicate, there’s not enough space in this room, now I need to rush, get out from here.
Sorry,
I didn’t realize I was taking this long.

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Number 15

Me and coffee have the most stereotypical love relationship ever. I do love it, although it is suffered love, the one of the kind you keep on being stuck with even if it does not love you back.

What does that mean? That I need it. My body calls for it; even if I am already shacking and my blood veins are shrinking themselves down to almost disappear, it needs just a drowsy face to my brain to believe that yes, I need more caffeine, no matter if I will end up feeling I am having heart attack for good 30 seconds – I will feel great anyhow afterwards for having survived.

I crave it. Better say I used to crave it so much that now I don’t want to let it go anymore. I do remember vacations in Calabria calling watermelon with funny names and expecting it to appear anyway on my plate; and then asking for cappuccino, getting extremely pissed off when my mother winked at the waiter whispering “Just a drop of coffee, please”. I must have been 7 years old and being in my latency stage, and so reclaiming things that I didn’t know – maybe I didn’t – that would do me no good.

It’s my reassurance. Part of a routine, so to say. Waking up zombie like in the morning and knowing that it is there – until my neurons are fast enough to make me remember where to find the yellow packet and my arms strong enough to unlock the coffee machine. Embracing me every single day, no matter how bad, sad, mean, I have been the day before, it keeps all the things the same – fire-brown liquid-cup-throat.

It is part of a routine then, that I try to shake, rekindle. For example, sometimes I only go for black coffee. Other times I disguise it with a drop of cream milk – yes, I do live in a northern European country – other times I shock it with the surprisingly good combination – works properly only if the coffee is superhot– of honey, certain periods I like to create a sandy-like bottom layer of – preferably – brown sugar in the cup. Shakes resembling a frustrated wife buying naughty underwear in the expensive shop to surprise her partner at night.

So yes, me and coffee have the silliest, most stereotypical relationship ever. My mom used to tell me about relationships, “The most important thing is that you like him and that he makes you feel good”. And I am over there, I guess.

Number 14

I rushed back home on the willpower of a couple of tired legs. The steaming lights of the club were hitching my yellow eyes.
Did you know?
I rushed back home because people were distracting me, Nigel Farage does not have the colour of your eyes.
Did you know that?
I rushed back home in a cold empty night, ignoring the monsters on my bed, collapsing on the sofa, crumpling under the blanket, leaving the light on so that I can project you sitting on the armrest.
I rushed back home because you were presumptuously filling all my actions with your imaginary presence, I was moving stiff picturing you next to me, and so I precipitated in my calm orange vanilla room in order for you to have the space you need, the space you have, inside me.

Number 13

Until a few months ago, I used to be a little bit chubbier. Just more curvy I guess, as my mother used to give me that kind of look when I was not hungry enough to have lunch like “I should be worrying about you because feeding you is what I have done through a liquidly swollen womb since even before imagining you existed, but now I think you’ll manage it until the next meal without that lasagne with mince and besciamella”.

In the last months I lost weight, maybe 6 kilos, and cannot really detect the exact reason between the variables of that period, maybe stress because of my just ended relationship and consequent moving – thus, a lot of weight lifting and walking through the city laden like a pack mule – or because of my specific attention to money, which were steadily disappearing from my bank account without proper replacement, or because I probably just realized I was eating too much – and so why not, I could have felt better without some of that little burden under my epidermis, and give myself a closer model-like appearance that every girl grew up in front of MTV channel secretly aims to.

So I was going back to the world slightly different and the world – especially the male one – looked back at me with slightly different eyes, and hands too. Especially in my home town, which is definitely more inclined to body contact – the warmer the place the more people touch each other, how funny is that – male friends and acquaintances allowed themselves to ponder on the angles of my waist when hugging me, when a kiss on the cheeks would have been enough to greet, they swept the pinched surface of my shoulders when giving me advices I did not ask for, they grabbed the easy circumference of my biceps when explaining me something I got already.

People started lingering on my body with the easiness of someone ordering a cheeseburger at McDonald’s, expecting me not to have a word on it, expecting their physical ponders to be absolutely OK, as if the shorter the travel on my now reduced body the smaller the fine to pay for violating it.

But still what those people didn’t get is that I never asked for those touches, for that colonization. Me, as every other woman, as every other human and being in whatever size and shape, we rarely want our spaces to be violated without authorization. My corners, soft flesh, thin layers, even if they have reduced their occupying areas over me, they are still the gates to my intimacy, to that part of me I want to keep away from the public, them, you, and leaning, brushing, palpating them means disregarding the ownership I have over it, my intimate self – which to be honest sometimes still really misses that besciamella and mince lasagna.

Number 12

We are the jumping generation.

We jump on and off from tabs, windows, one click connecting us to the next video, to the next page, to the facebook page, scrolling down to check how much more does it take to finish the article, does he really think that I am going to read it all? Visiting our new favourite blog that has one-week expiration How could I be stuck on that website? This one is so good but look this one on the ad looks better we jump from conversation to conversation sorry I forgot to text you back and ironically we forget to text back again, we look away in restaurants, we look at the screens, we have the power over those tiny machines by holding them firmly, by shutting them on, and off, and on the same with your partner and no surprise you are single now and controlling the conversation I want to talk about the closest Chinese restaurant to me, Google, we jump in the job market, we have the aspiration of diplomats or interior designers but hey this restaurant is not that bad, they pay me weekly and the jutting ass of the waitress, we read this line before getting to the fourth, we crave for new, like if we had something old to dismiss, but then what old, we haven’t gripped enough in the present.

Number 10

Everything was set.
The rivers were flooding, the birds had acquired the ability to fly and sing, and the flowers their colors. The dawn woke up and the sunset slumbered, the moon had crumbled its stars into the night.
Everything seemed set, it seemed…
“Look at those bags under my eyes!” moaned Nature at the mirror, caressing her face. “They can’t see me like this!”
Nature was worried about her aspect like a teenager on her first date. And the world, all the world, was waiting for her outside.
“They can’t see me in these conditions! After all these beauties I created, can they imagine there is such an ugly and tired woman at the head of it?”
But the room was empty, and his groans could not find answers.
She convened Poetry.
“Poetry, please, help me. Humans want to know me, but I am not ready yet…”
Poetry did not hesitate.
“Don’t worry Nature, I will take care of entertaining them for a while.”
“How will you do it?” Asked Nature.
“I will insinuate myself in your creations, and I will satisfy their imagination with sweet and delicate, or brutal and upset thoughts, because that’s how things are beautiful Nature, as you are”.
And Poetry was secretly in love with Nature…
And he succeeded in his task to the extent that for years, centuries, millenniums, the humans filled books and paintings of the most creative images, of morning chariots and monsters of the underworld, all of this to imagine how Nature could look like.
And they were so beautiful, unique, and precious representations that Nature did not ever feel the need to march and reveal herself.

http://www.atxoni.com/#!mitologia-immaginata/c7xf

Number 3 – Communication

Communication.

She draws red lines on a whiteboard
then turns to the people behind her,
echoing with her eyes half-closed.

Communication.

She likes to mesmerize the opposite sex
with a flock of violet words,
with a legion of mouth shut smiles.

Communication.

She says she won’t finish her plate,
she will make you sniggering
at her nibbled tomato sauce spaghetti.

Communication.

He has a wall of webs in front of him,
he will love to pause for a minute,
shifting a blank chair,
bleaching his reddening thoughts.