I want to be one of those girls
You know that girl who jumps off the roof into a pile of snow one day
and the next relays back and forth from hot tub to snow drift in just her bikini,
steam rising off smarting skin. I want to be one of those girls to whom wearing
a bikini is nothing like news of a bomb threat, who gets a tattoo just because
she likes it (but never regrets it), and who looks good with her sleeves rolled up.
She has good one-night-stand stories and a favorite lipstick, and she doesn’t
giggle so much as moan when you kiss the hollow before her hipbone. She speaks
another language, has a favorite band and a hill she would die on. She can be
everything or nothing like the version of someone you remember; she just isn’t
the me you remember. (Oh, I want to say that to so many people). Sin unthinkable,
depravity definite as a fixed point on the horizon. She knows how the world spins on.
She’s one of those girls who wears all black one day, a double rainbow the next.
She knows how to sieve through anger, how not to sink in rot. Which is all to say
this girl I want to be—although, sometimes I don’t know if I want to be her or fuck her—
knows all the things I do not know: how to take risks, enjoy herself, relax, be playful,
be brightly exacting and crisp as the fall air, not a killjoy, someone both lovable
and fun to love, and someone you could talk to, trust, forgive, remember,
even if she’s only some girl you heard about fondly that one time.
Anna Press is a queer writer and educator living and teaching in New York. Her work appears in Perhappened, Porcupine Literary, The Hellebore, Daily Drunk Mag, and Emerge Lit Mag, and is forthcoming elsewhere. Talk to her on Twitter @annaepress.