Molly Kat

July 8

The flowers are blooming in the baseline of her closet, the hangers are dancing with their twisted necks around the bar; the plum blossoms are still falling. She is too much for most men to handle and she’s done thinking this is a shortcoming. Maybe she’d fit better into the soft spot of a left cheekbone, a higher cheekbone, a feminine nose. She’s contorted herself into the body of a girl and it’s never belonged, but she doesn’t want to be a boy, she doesn’t want to be something that can fall off the tongue in an insult; most days she just doesn’t want to be. It’s not that she doesn’t love the East Coast, it’s just hard to belong to anyone right now, she wants to belong to herself. She can’t stand the idea of a man’s name around her finger no matter how soft and sweet he is, and everybody knows New York is never soft. She doesn’t believe in monogamy. She thinks pain is the most integral part of her landscape, she thinks one day she’ll meet someone who can hug her instead of pointing out how little sense she makes. One day, someone will think the dent in her skull is beautiful. They’ll trace the contours of her history, internalize the potholes. The white dashes on her legs will be the storyline, the scar tissue on her wrists will be the last thing they kiss goodnight. Every time the world ends they’ll wonder how come it took this long? She stands outside the cottage and listens to the baby screaming inside. She wonders who will come comfort it, who its mother is, if it would have his eyes. She hunkers down by the window and listens in on a world that will never belong to her. She knows she belongs to women, but her history of naked men could wallpaper the entire attic. She tries to sing the melody to the lullaby inside, listens for the cooing baby. There is a pie cooling on the table. There are endless possibilities in the empty frames by the stairs. Sophie cries when her mother won’t come to their wedding, Lily adopts three children and grows geraniums in a part of the world where they shouldn’t be able to take root. May is the last month she’ll live. She can’t take root here, with you, with this body that feels so outdated and wronged. She thinks she can wallpaper her history more accurately on the inside of an atom bomb. She’s cutting it till it looks less like a girl, and more like a woman, and more like a boy, and less like a man, and more like a month that would let two bodies break even and open, and whole. In a way that makes no sense at all. In a way that makes sense to them.