O, (you) SEE, Death is around the corner. Literallyโpossiblyโlike if my hands are at ten and two but my eyes are darting from the rearview to the side mirrors because did I just run someone over back there? You say, Youโd know if you ran someone over. And Youโd know if you had appendicitis. Or heat stroke, a yeast infection, some rare heart condition, cancer, pink eye, worms, cancer, diabetes, cancer, cancer, meningitis. But would I? Because the hands on the clock donโt even feel real. The girl in the mirror has a cute waist, and I want to reach out and touch my own reflection, because I think Iโm bisexual, and humbly, I am my type, and maybe if we kiss she will slip out of my medicine cabinet and become a Real Girl. I wing my eyeliner and imagine it would feel good to identify with my hot girl haircut as a formerly frizzy โsorry my hamster sent that textโ teenager. I let the city soak in my performed sense of self and donโt notice the cherry red blisters that bloom on my heels until Iโm about to cover them with cotton. The internet says itโs cancer, but my schedule is a bit too busy for me to deal with that. Four weeks later, the nurse at the walk in clinic asks why Iโm in, and I tell him that the internet thinks I could have cancer blisters, and he gives me the ole you canโt trust the internet!, until the doctor arrives and says if they arenโt gone in four weeks they could be cancer, but until then I should soak them. I should probably get on that.
Lucia Gallipoli is an undergraduate student concentrating in sexuality, love, and art. She is probably lost somewhere in the cycle of worshipping Mitski and Kate Bush via Spotify and forgetting that they exist for a few weeks. Her book reviews can be found on Instagramย @TenderPages.
