I’m Him

You’re 35 years old pouncing your eyes on my 19 year old body. I avoided being this close to you because I knew. You’re a man. Masculine. Fierce. Powerful.

You try to be subtle but you’re so obvious. You put your phone down, you turned towards me and a part of me believed it was over. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. ‘Are you a virgin, Christabel?’ I prepare for myself a funeral speech using my blood as ink. There is no audience. There are no witnesses. The funeral house is empty. No one is there to wash the cum stains off my white clothes.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ I thought I felt my body’s betrayal but it was just my breasts preparing themselves to be used. Predestined. Like this was always meant to happen. Born ready to be touched. To be woman is to never know when. Or how. I’ve never felt more connected to all the women that came before me. If nothing else unites us  perhaps this will.

You said to beware of the Arab french men but in the reflection of your eyes I saw a memory of 6 year of me in my kitchen, with a man around your age trying to kiss me. Home alone. Innocent. Sweet. In that moment I was 6 again. Only this time I was prepared. I don’t think I would have screamed.

Every sunday like clockwork I pray the pastor’s prophetic powers reveal the demons inside of you.

Perhaps it would be easier if I imagine this to be a porno. A cnc scene even. I give my body to you. I am pretty now. To be fucked is to be desired. Soft. Hard. Picture of your wife next to us. Immediately after the call with your 3 kids.

I cried. untouched but no longer clean. Man of God.

Lamb of God, seated at the right hand of the Father you are Holy, Holy you are Holy

I wish I was Him. I wish i had the power and not the fanny, the pussy, the vagina. I wish I was more. I wish I was a 19 year old girl in Paris. But you’re Him. you’re Him. you’ll always be Him.