60scig

[60scig]

1/24/25

What goes on in your mind when we aren’t together? Do I cross your mind just as often as you do mine, haunting each of your thoughts until you grow sick? Have you noticed all the small things I do in hopes of grabbing your attention? I purposely park my car beside yours, the first thing my eyes scan for is your truck. Your schedule is burned into my brain, playing out like the lines of a program being fed to a computer. Each step I take is planned down to the minute, and my outfits consist of hours meticulously picking an attire that would surely catch your eye. I recite my words like an actress hours before I speak them out loud, waiting for the perfect moment where I have you alone with only me to look at. It must all align with the dreams I had the night before, where you fall in love with me again and again, each in a different way.

I spend so much time plotting and fantasizing, leaving only seconds for us to truly interact. My heart swells in my chest when you finally come and speak to me, my legs swinging back and forth with giddiness. I purse my lips to conceal my smile; you don’t realize that you’re illuminated by a heavenly glow through my vision. You don’t realize any of it at all, in fact–any of my efforts to be in your line of sight at all times. You don’t notice when I am upset at you for doing nothing in particular, where I will then break my strict patterns and rules, taking a different path to purposely avoid you–though only enough to where you still take notice of my presence. You know nothing of the way my eyes immediately swell with tears when I leave, or how I sink to my knees struggling to breathe. It’s like you’re holding my lungs and heart in your large palms, squeezing to push the air from my body. It’s as if you wish for me to die.

I doubt it, I tell myself. You are nothing but kind and gentle, and I only twist you into something malicious as a result of my own obsession and need. I will become so enraged that I storm away from you, heaving in desperate attempts to catch my breath while chanting a mantra of devastation directed towards you just to keep calm. Yet when I return, there will be a gift in your hands and a smile on your face as you explain that you thought of me. I look up bewildered, like a feral cat just handed a can of food, wondering what it has done to deserve it. You insist that I keep it and I thank you almost inaudibly, suddenly feeling guilty. I add it to my pile of things I have received from you, all accumulating into a small mountain like a squirrel’s winter hoard. I push it out of sight, for it only makes me taste something bitter in my mouth knowing that I had wished for something awful to come upon you just moments before. I don’t wish to touch any of it, afraid that it will disappear forever. I have yet to hand you anything in return aside from the small bag of your favorite candies that I had gifted you anonymously.

I live almost as a ghost, then grow jealous and wonder through angry tears why you speak to others more than me. You are so friendly, so outgoing, friends with practically everyone you come across, and I despise that part of you. If only you were pathetic like myself, then we could attach ourselves onto one another, feeding off of each other like vampires. Release your hand from my neck and let me regurgitate all my feelings for you into your palms, not caring in the slightest about how insane I must sound. Let me claw at your chest and nestle myself inside of you, burrowing myself into the cavities of your body. If you were aware of how desperate I am for you, I wonder if you would either become inflated with confidence or push me away and tell me I am sick.

Despite my longing that feels as if it is eating away at my flesh, I still remain good, for the image of being good is all that I have. I will continue to sit quietly, my hands trapped between my knees and my gaze kept low while you speak to me. I will smile and nod, staring at your loafers instead of your face. If I peer up, I will only be reminded of how handsome I find you to be and grow the urge to pounce. I do not want to seem desperate, but perhaps you already see right through me.

[60scig]

A fawn curled up beside a fake deer which is used for target practice

[60scig]

1/19/25

It began with me bashfully explaining that I had hardly kissed anyone before, not realizing that my face was bleeding from my anxious picking. There was a bewildered look on your face as you asked. Really? To which I nodded softly, pulling my hand away from my face to see the darkness of blood on my fingertips. I told you about my first love whom I would only exchange small pecks with, and the girl I had kissed once, allowing her to swallow my lips while I sat frozen. I felt my ears begin to burn as I rambled, just as they did when I spoke to you outside of the confines of our hiding spot. Everything I said was humiliating or incorrect to me, and I only felt soothed when you placed your hand on my knee, insisting that it was alright.

I fell quiet while I attempted to regulate my breathing, staring at your hand still resting on the fabric of my skirt. I couldn’t tell if it was alright to touch you back. Can you kiss me? I softly ask instead, not lifting my head in fear of your expression twisting into something sour. I watch your hand slip off my knee, retreating back to your lap before hearing you sigh through your nose. I furrow my brows–isn’t this what you expected of me?

Are you okay with that? You asked, voice a tone I have never heard from you before. Low, cautious, attractive. Is that what you want?

It feels like a loaded question, and suddenly I doubt myself. Do you want to kiss me?

I lift my gaze to watch you chuckle, and I feel the painful heat in my ears again. It continues to burn until you tell me that you would like to, then the pain moves to my chest as if a boot were crushing my ribs. My thrilled heart has no space to beat, pounding so hard that I can hear it clearly in my head. I stare at you. I believe that you recognize that I won’t be the first to initiate anything; I never have been.

There is a long silence between us as you slowly inch closer, my hands growing clammy as they grip tightly onto  my oversized sleeves. I feel naked as you eye me, suddenly much too aware of how the fabric feels against my skin. Finally, again, you ask if this is alright. This time I replied yes, it’s okay.

You miss my lips the first time, I assume on purpose. Your mustache faintly brushes against the skin of my cheek as you hover over the corner of my mouth. I remain stiff, not knowing where to place my sweaty hands. I don’t know what to do, I tell you. You chuckle again, insisting once more that everything is okay, adding that it is alright for me to touch you. Though, it is not much help, for I sit stupid without being told exactly where to touch.

I slowly improvise, placing my palms flat on your chest rather awkwardly. We look at one another and your smile thaws me just slightly, enough to loosen my stiffness enough to trail my hands up to the bare skin of your neck. Good, you coo, and my mouth runs dry. There is a strange flutter in my gut as I wrap my arms around you.

This time, your lips land onto mine. I shivered at the feeling of your facial hair, wanting to squirm and push you away from the scratchiness. However, I remain good, and let my eyes fall shut as you take control of the kiss. I don’t know when to part my lips, simply following your movements as everything becomes too moist for my liking. Your one hand on my cheek is warm and provides comfort, keeping me from biting your lip as hard as I can and fleeing. My body quickly begins to ache for more,  realizing just how starved I was of any affection, but just as I gain the courage to properly kiss you back, the cold air hits my lips from you pulling away.

Why’d you stop? It comes out desperate. I internally cringe.

Your breathing is heavy. We can’t do too much.

It feels like the introduction of a drug into my system. I return home and vomit into the sink, scrubbing my lips with soap and water, spending extra time on the skin below my nose where your mustache had been. I slid down to the tile floor, sitting in silence with the reality of what I had just done. The next day, we pass by one another, acting as if nothing ever happened. You greet me just as you normally do with your usual friendly attitude, then disappear to work. I sit stiff in my office chair, not processing a single word that my colleague speaks into my ear. I purse my lips to hide a grin. She is completely unaware.

I return to you again and again, back to that hiding spot. We kiss like school children for what feels like hours, but each time I attempt to ask for more, you brush it off. We can’t, you tell me, which causes anger to pour out of me. I storm away despite knowing very well that what you are saying is true, only to return again like a stray cat that expects food.

[60scig]

[60scig]

by Julie Falk

[60scig]

9/20/24

Silence suffocates me as it fills the small space between us. I keep my posture straight, kicking my feet innocently with my hands in my lap, not moving my head an inch as I glance to the side. Arms folded across your chest, I purse my lips at the sight of your rough, masculine hands. Button up tucked into the waist of your trousers, a smutty image beginning to be painted in my mind. My jaw clamps shut, biting hard on the inner flesh of my mouth–the sharp pain and metallic taste of blood tears my gaze away, becoming aware of just how dirty I am. I curse myself, dig my nails into my palm as hard as I can muster, yet I can’t ignore the warm feeling in my chest.

It’s the feeling that drives me to watch your every move. Do you feel the same way? The flutter brushing against your ribs from the inside, tickling you into a smile? Is that why you don’t speak to me? Shyness freezes you in place, or perhaps you hold the same naughty ideas as me. I make you nervous, unable to spill just how much you need me, unable to face me–speak to me. You keep your back turned to me to hide your flustered expression, just as I do. Yes, I firmly believe that beneath the silence, my ignored words, and your unreturned glances, there is a need to hold me, kiss me, tell me that I am everything you need.

Let me nuzzle into you, become an addiction you cannot rid of. Stop ignoring me; let me infiltrate your entire being–your life. I feed on your confusion and neglect.

[60scig]

9/10/24

There’s warmth within my chest, and my cheeks ache from smiling. You watch me swing my feet, tapping my nails, grinning to myself without knowing my mind is filled with thoughts of you. I’m sorry for the cold shoulder; I changed my mind. Hatred melts into comfort, and I follow you around like a lost puppy. You turn around to see me, dark eyes peering up at you through clumpy mascara drenched lashes, waiting for you to place your hand upon my head. Let me nuzzle into your touch; let it rot my flesh.

How long will this last? The satisfaction you bring me–the validation. I want to inject myself into your life like a drug just to keep you close, to keep you from discarding me. I want to claw at you, pry open your ribs to crawl inside you, to run my fingers over your details and memorize every inch of you. I’m hungry to know everything about you; starving for the sustenance you provide me. Keep it coming, for it keeps me healthy. Rosy cheeks full of life, I’m speaking more than I ever have before, like a body brought back from the dead. 

Keep me happy; you’re all that I have, though I can’t help but press my fingers to my eyes to keep the tears from spilling out. Tears that threaten to bring back my sour hatred, I quickly wipe them away, careful not to smudge my eyeliner. Deep breath, sit up straight; I ignore the pit in my stomach eating me from the inside.

[60scig]

8/31/24

Gentle grasp upon my shoulder, I dream of you squeezing, crushing my scapula in your grasp. You’re nothing but kind to me, yet I twist good natured courtesy into something cruel and evil. I wait for what I conjure in my own head, living in the fantasy of you that I have forced myself to believe. A soft tap on my arm becomes a bullet wound, and soft words of concern filter into malice spoken in a coldhearted tone. I quiver for no reason, and humiliation burns throughout my body once I watch your face soften to apologize. Listening to your voice makes a part of me feel ill–I want to lurch forward in front of you and spill sick at your feet.

I think of you kneeling down to aid me. Press a large hand to my cheek.

I feel myself shiver. My mind cries for you to keep your palm against the soft flesh, inserting images of your fingers trailing downward into my vision. Down the side of my neck, grazing me through the turtleneck I purposely wear for you. The fitted fabric makes my arms look thin; wrap your hand around my wrist. Give it a squeeze.

I notice the glint of your wedding ring. I nearly shoot towards your hand to dig my canines into your skin, but you keep me frozen in place. You fill me with rage; so much so that I wish for nothing but your attention. You know nothing of me, I don’t cross your mind while you lay in bed, for there’s another body beside you. Content, sleeping peacefully, while I lay sprawled on my cold mattress, envisioning you between my legs. Tears spill from my eyes, like a broken dam, unable to stop.

It would be better if you hated me.

[60scig]

you are not a wasteland you just need ibuprofen and a hot bath and a shower and a nutritious meal and some water and some fresh air and to do something productive and to do something creative and to do something that takes physical exertion and to do something social

[60scig]

8/9/24

Garbage piles up in my bedroom like vines crawling up the walls of abandoned buildings. Bare and dusted, cobwebs form in the crevices of my body as it decomposes into the mattress. I let my head fall to the side, sunlight peeking through the shades burning my nocturnal eyes. How many days has it been? Minutes turn to hours, and hours to days, all occupied by blank stares at the ceiling and naps that are the closest resemblance to death that I have. My body refuses to wake up, eyelids heavy and unable to stay open, forcing me into another coma. Sometimes I cannot tell if I’m truly awake, for my eyes open to stare out at my room, yet nothing feels real.

I watch myself from the ceiling as I stay planted in my bed sheets, my stomach stabbing at me as it cries for food. I am dreaming, therefore I don’t need to eat. An absence of motivation leaves me to live on carbonated drinks and seventy calorie mozzarella snacks, the evidence all over my bedroom as it’s littered in cans and wrappers. It follows me to work, with an empty soda bottle sitting beside my full cup of water as it sits neglected. I don’t make eye contact with anyone I speak to, my words that I’ve repeated time and time again to dozens of people each day falling off my lips like a broken record. Headless bodies pass me by, not halting in their tracks for even a moment to take in my presence. As friendly chatter and laughter takes place behind me, I keep my back turned to the small crowd, waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and invite me in. 

Nothing. I leave, letting myself boil in the hellish heat of my car in silence. The leather of the steering wheel burns my palms, using the blistering pain as a reminder that I’m not asleep in my ice cold bedding.

When I am home, dread washes over me at the thought of looking at myself in the mirror. Oily makeup, cheeks bumpy with acne, separated bangs and colorless lips, I think of all the people that day who came across me and thought of me as hideous. The thought of being perceived by others makes me feel ill, wanting to bend over the toilet and spill Pepsi and mozzarella into the bowl. I scrub at my face, fingernails scratching at any imperfection I see, then let myself rest in the comfort of my nest with inflamed cheeks and imperfections fresh with blood.

I look forward to closing my eyes. I deprive myself of sleep until my limbs feel like lead, unable to move like someone on their final breaths. I let myself fall back into that feeling of death, the one that lets me see images of a life more fortunate than the one I am forced to repeat each time I open my eyes. 

I wish I could stay this way, a mummy in a tomb surrounded by items most beloved to them, a hollow shell of a corpse that doesn’t have to think.

[60scig]

8/4/24

Children grow taller than me, passing down their clothes to my dusted closet as they become adults quicker than I do. I stand before the mirror, dressed in smalls that shape my body loosely into an elongated box, like a doll dressed by a toddler. I hide my thinning legs with the length of my skirt, dropping to my knees to examine my face. Pressing my fingers to my plumpness, my nails dig slightly into the skin in an attempt to claw off the fat, wishing it would slop off onto the floor, instead staining the apples of my cheeks a fleshy pink. I push my flat nose upward, peering into the darkness of my nostrils, imagining my skull, clean and hollowed out.

Should I be wilting, waiting for my body to sag and wrinkle? My feet blister in heels, makeup melts off of my face, my chest too small to shop for brassieres–I have never felt my age. I stand lost, twiddling my thumbs while I wait to be instructed, wondering how those around me know how to effortlessly navigate through their own adult lives. The thought of being alone, having to sustain myself without the help of anyone but myself brings a debilitating fear and my fingers twist into my hair, yanking as I wish for my own death.

I am undesirable, a weak animal. A newborn pony that cannot yet stand on its own, legs so thin and brittle they threaten to snap as they shake beneath its weight. Sickly, unable to move, disappointed human gazes peer down at my pathetic self writhing in the unkempt hay of the barn. I am no good, watching with black pits for eyes as the other animals provide something that is of use. I would prefer being a horse taken care of by experienced farmers, than a lonely girl that cannot bring herself to do anything.

I have no dreams, no image of myself grown into full blossom. I flip through aspirations like a child, changing my mind the moment my eye is caught on something else. I live in a dream, my happiness determined by what happens in my mind. When they don’t become reality I feel my head threaten to split into two, the weight of the world pushing the air from my lungs.

I poke at my body like roadkill, as a bystander coming across something grim. A rabbit in the street, eyes still wide open as if it were still breathing, it still holds its innocence despite its twisted legs and flattened midsection. Over the next few weeks, it will stay cemented to the blazing asphalt, slowly decomposing. Tires will crush it again and again, until there's nothing.

[60scig]

Damage (1992) dir. Louis Malle

[60scig]

July evening in the garden. Värmland, Sweden (July 3, 2021).

[60scig]

7/31/24

Chipping the wine red color from my fingernails, I sprinkle the polish onto the seats of his truck. I sigh, kicking off my boots–the summer heat seeping into the car was making my legs sweat against the leather. When my right thumb is chipped clean, I shuffle in my seat to peek my head out the open window.

“Are we stranded?” I ask, crossing my arms over the window sill, resting my chin on top of my hands. My little cowboy friend slams the truck hood shut, lifting his hat from his head to wipe the sweat from his forehead; wavy strands of dark hair sticking to his skin. I grin.

“Nothin’ to worry about.” He tells me in an almost inaudible mumble, walking around to return to the driver’s seat. Upon entering, he immediately notices the red sprinkles dusting the terracotta colored seats. Pulling away from the window, grin still plastered on my lips, I splay out my fingers for him to see my messy nails, only my thumb completely clean. He shakes his head, then begins to explain what was wrong with the truck.

I don’t understand a single word. Nodding my head along, I lean forward to reach into the glove compartment, pulling out our crumpled and worn map, unfolding it in front of my face. At some point, he stopped talking and started the truck. It rumbled violently for a brief second, but calmed down to a point where he pulled us back on the road.

“Where we going?” I ask. When he tells me, I place my finger against the location on the map, trailing it down until I meet our current location.

I keep my window down, letting the hot air blow through my hair, tussling the strands and ruining my neat braid. He’s too silent, so I rummage for a tape, making snide comments about his music taste until I stumble across The Doors.

“You look like Jim Morrison.” I observe, pushing the tape into the cassette player.

“Do I?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

I nod. “More handsome, I think.”

A beat of silence. Do I look like Pamela? I don’t ask. I simply admire the toothy chuckle he replies with, watching his fingers readjust on the steering wheel before turning up the music’s volume as loud as I could without it becoming migraine inducing. I let Morrisson’s poetic lyrics drill into my head, pulling down the visor to examine myself in the mirror. Fiery ginger hair now ratted by the wind, milky white skin dusted in freckles–I think I looked like Pamela Courson. Maybe he and I were reincarnated cosmic lovers.

After running my fingers over the texture of my skin, picking at any impurities I felt, I turned back to him. He mouths along to the lyrics of Blue Sunday; maybe he was singing, but I couldn’t hear it over the music’s volume. If it weren’t so loud, you would think that it was his true voice.

I imagine him as my famous rockstar boyfriend for the rest of the ride. Instruments in the trunk, a large van with the rest of the band trailing behind us as we make way to the location of their next show. Maybe one day we too would flee to Paris; I was beginning to grow tired of driving around the Southwest, anyways. So was the truck as it rumbled once more while it rolled into the gas station parking lot, feeling as if it were going to collapse underneath us.

As I stroll through the gas station, basking in the air conditioning, I side eye out the large windows to watch him speaking to an old man with a long greying beard and shiny bald head as they examine the truck once again. The owner, I suppose. While I flip through magazines, trying to decide which one to shove into my bag, I imagine what he’s telling the old man; maybe we’re lovers on our way to Las Vegas, looking to get hitched. Maybe I’m a hitchhiker being escorted to San Francisco. Or, my true hope: he’s the frontman of a band on his way to Los Angeles. There were many excuses to choose from, I thought as I rolled up the latest edition of Vogue and buried it in my bag, but maybe the old man wouldn’t be phased by the truth.

In an area like this, deserted and surrounded by miles of dead shrubbery and exhausting heat, I believed it to be possible that he had come across two suspected killers before.

[60scig]

7/29/24

Like an injection, blunt nails dig into my skin. Ecstasy shoots through my veins, turning the blurred image of your face into an illusion of God. The couch becomes a soft cloud, nesting my nakedness in a comforting warmth that tells me I am still pure. You kiss me gently; pink dusted cheeks, flat nose, makeup stained lips–carefully as if I were made of porcelain. A part of my brain wishes for you to shatter me, to dig your nails far enough into the flesh of my arms that they cave into the hollowness of my body, letting shattered pieces of myself fall through the clouds. Perhaps you would find them later, scattered across your floor, accidentally digging into the flesh of your feet, sharp pain reminding you of me.

You do my hair afterwards. I twiddle my thumbs as I wait for you to tell me how disgusting I am, but it never arrives. You chuckle at how much hair I have, thick fingers twisting through coarse strands to form a braid. You tell me it’s beautiful, and I bite hard onto the inside of my cheek to hold back the urge to whip around and scream at you. When you kiss me again, your brows furrow. You taste like blood.

When I leave, I don’t reach out to you. Your words over text make me feel ill. I hate seeing photos of you–I feel so embarrassed that I cry and wish to peel the skin from my body. It’s like seeing myself after a terrible drunken night; a blur of humiliation and impulsive decisions that left a pounding headache and sour taste in your mouth the morning after. When you approach me, I don’t look into your eyes. You compliment my outfit. I thank you–I always hate yours. While you drive, you don’t speak. I get to play my favorite songs. Maybe you recognize that the sound of your voice will make me roll out of the moving vehicle.

I tell myself that you feel bad for me. Like a feral cat, tearing at your hands with sharp teeth and bewildered eyes as if it wished you had never saved it, but the moment you place a bowl of food before it, there it goes, gorging itself on the sustenance you provide it. Then, it will slash at you again, leaving scars on your ankles until the next time you feed it. 

I am mean. I am ugly. I am a sour girl who only ever thinks of herself. Like the stray cat, I wish you had never picked me up. Yet I can’t leave the comfort of your apartment; I crave you more than anything. I’ll stand before you, head hung low in bashfulness–a cat begging for food. The sound of your amused huff makes my ears burn slightly, but it quickly fades away as I’m brought back to the clouds, your fingers injecting me with what I craved most.

[60scig]

7/27/24

I pressed a kiss to your cheek–I wasn’t sure why. You had helped me search for my puppy; it was an instinct of thanks. Greasy strands of blond hair, a body that resembled vanilla pudding spilling from its plastic container, the corners of my lips turned upwards before skipping away. 

I didn’t like vanilla pudding; the slimy texture thick in my mouth made me want to gag. I didn’t gag when I kissed your cheek–Hell, I had gone home, puppy in arms with a grin on my face and the word ‘boyfriend’ falling from my lips.

The more I say it, and now the more I think back on it, the term begins to rot in my mouth. My teeth fall loose from my gums when you call me a sweet thing, smooth skin wrinkling as I’m pulled into your pudgy body. I don’t taste vanilla pudding when your lips are swallowing mine; it’s hot, reminiscent of cigarettes and a sour taste that I couldn’t identify. You called me beautiful, a word that made my skin crawl as I stared impolitely at your nakedness.

I smiled. I giggled and felt my cheeks burn with a blush. I hid my face with my hands when I laughed, the same way I did with men I found attractive. Sounds of pleasure. I pushed hair from your face. Another warm smile.

I never told you about vomiting in your toilet. I gargled water from your sink and reapplied my favorite peachy shimmer to my lips. The taste of my own bile reminded me of our kiss.