Britney

The new toy blinds her. It flashes before it dulls; excited by the bait, she bites. She chews and chews and soon finds herself consuming the specter of a flavor. The future layers itself over her body; the flesh cannot transcend the space that it was borne of, and yet she tries to force it out of itself.

What will she be like at 22, 34, 59? She is a deeply dissatisfied writer who spends her days in the oven and the bed; she smells a love that has become a cadaver on the wind, and questions everything she has told the world. She is neither content nor regretful, but swimming in the acknowledgement that every path has a premature dead end; she is hogtied by these beliefs, for they are what she feared and yet all she has ever known. Doomed to only ever describe herself with vague fragments.

These years that are yet to come have already approached her, and she is crushed by the recognition that she is totally, completely fucked. ♦