I miss when being pretty only meant to be pretty. When I could read Palanhiuk and Kerouac cause I was a child on fire — fire in my eyes, now I’m only fire of your loins. Now I read Duras and Sagan, and this beauty of mine does not mean anything but I cling to it like it’s the only thing that matters. (Am I still pretty, to you? Is it too late to be young already?)
I miss being invisible, my flat chest under the eyes of men. My closed mouth, my dry underwear. The freedom of being interested in myself. In me. Not distracted by men's desire, by their norms, not imprisoned by the chains of their terms, their categories, their names — pure/impure; frigid/deflowered. What has become of me? Did they choose me or leave me? Saved me or desecrated me? Did they swallow me? Spat me out? Felt the urge to unbutton their trousers for me, to cheat on their wives for me? Is this the reason behind my obsession with the preservation of my beauty — because a man is looking at me?
I miss claiming my right to decide, to place myself. The way I wasn’t afraid of being in control of my own life, I wasn't happy to be relieved from the responsibility of choosing what to do, where to go. I wanted that power. I wished I had more power. Now I do not want to choose, I do not want to think. I want you to say I for me. I want you to say I for me — so I can always point fingers and never take the blame, always depend on, dying without you. What a failure of a woman I am. I desire to be weak.
I miss my teenage boldness, firmness, confidence, curiosity, dignity. I miss that girl. I remember her and I miss her. And you know why I miss her? Not because she was strong. But because she desired to be strong.
