Constantly unreliable, she flickers between frozen and unstopping. When she slows, her hair is dull and has tinged with iridescence; when she chooses to sprint, however, her whole body exudes a prismatic warmth.
That shirt-soaking heat is eerily omnipresent. It’s all too warm during a nostalgic elementary school Christmas party— Boiling when a summer camp’s death date lurks behind a calendar’s corner.
I hate her and her stupid hair, regardless of if she’s frigid or flaming.
My relationship with time is, for lack of a better word, labyrinthine. There’s seconds where I’m grateful for her marriage to euphoria and dissociation, but the minutes where I hope she falls face-first on a mattress of machetes overshadows that fleeting joy.
But she doesn’t care, as her indifference eclipses a 6 '4 Adidas model strutting down SoHo’s broadway. Even when the final clock rests his weary hands, she will continue her unending arm wrestling, dislocating his corroding limbs with a straight-lipped mouth.
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