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11:56 p.m. - 2006-07-16
Sydney Grrl
Sweet little girl, sharp-tongued, wild-eyed, plump lip perfection. She's the roughest girl on the block with her scuffed boots, metal-enhanced face, entourage of surly admirers. A few spikes of improbably-coloured hair around a perfect doll's face, the rest a silky shaved expanse to rub over with my fingers until she shakes them away.
She's tiny but she takes up more than my whole bed, sprawled out from corner to corner, an arm across my chest and a foot across my thigh. She fidgets all night long, as though she can't allow me to sleep without reminding me of her presence- fingernails scratch my breast, the socks she refuses to take off trail up and down my leg, her breath shifts from my ear to my shoulder to my hair. She's happy as a cat in bed. I place kisses to her belly, lick her collar bone, bite down on her lovely cheek.
In the morning she is smudged with make-up, a curled lip, hair-dye prints on my pillows. Reluctance returns, and I can't tell if she's shying away from my hands or from having to think about herself as something I want. I have to bully her into the day, drag her with me, and it feels so strange to try to mother her. I bring her coffee made just the right way and watch her drink it, eyes averted.
She paints herself back to perfection in front of my mirror, conjuring materials from a ratty backpack. She ducks away from my attempt at a kiss, barely endures my morning enthusiasm. Watching her slouch off to the place where the tought girls hang, wherever that is, I feel half-adored and half-rejected.
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