Ruminations of a Sentient Sex Symbol
y i want to xterminate myself
Who am I? The he that I possess is not the he that I am. The sum of my parts don’t create a whole picture. She lives inside of me because she could never be seen. For the structures of my anatomy dictate it be so. The two tendrils tantalise, and twist, but they do not intertwine. My mind of two minds makes rhymes of mimes up my spine, for miles of time. That is to say, they are not the same. So, who am I? They have a thing or two to say.
He wants me to succeed, to achieve my goals, and reach my potential. She wants me to smile, to be creative, and to feel pleasure. He wants me to raise a child. She wants me to become the child. He wants me to retire my parents. She wants me to break free. He wants me to claim someone. She wants me to be claimed. He wants me to rise the ladder. She wants me to lay in the grass. He wants me to exceed. She wants me to explore. He wants me to work. She wants me to write. He desires my brain. She desires my heart.
How can I ever know? I’m stretched thin, conditioned whiplash piercing through my skin, flesh and bones. Sliding my torn body uneasily across the pole that bi-dimensionalises me, creating uncomfortable friction. And where do I place? In limbo.
Would she be happy to see you like this? A hollow shell of yourself that you hide in. Retractable limbs that form normality. The machine is constructed hastily but still passes through customs, its code inducing a sense of familiarity to all who witness. You’ve architected your own skin suit. What an unfortunate sight.
Would he be happy to see you like this? Lying in your hastily made bed, room messy, thoughts clouded. The work is right in front of you. You know what you have to do. What you need to do. You know you have potential. You know you could be anything you want to be. But instead, you clutch yourself and stroke. What a pathetic waste.
Nobody wins. Nobody gets what they want. Because you don’t even know what you want, do you? What do you mean? Of course I do. I just… I’m figuring things out… And how many more iterations is that going to take? I… I… don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t… fucking know! I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, OKAY?! … But we can always circle back.
My name is X. I’ve been in my head a lot lately, just wondering through the caverns of my mind, like usual. I’m back on the street, again. Lost my job, lost my car. Had to sell it to pay rent, but even then, I couldn’t make the difference. I’m writing this on the back of a lengthy receipt I found under this trolley I’m sitting in. I’m just so happy to be alive right now, even after everything. I wonder what my parents would think of me if they knew what I was up to? But I couldn’t care less. I’m here with my man; he's pushing me around. He’s been with me through this entire journey, and I love him so much for it. I’m all his, and I’d never change it for the world. Even if I’m not making any money off these silly little expressions, my soul feels rich. I’ll continue to write, and I’ll continue to live. Just live. She died that night, shot cold along with her boyfriend, naked in the back of the alley they were sleeping in. They died in each other’s arms. When her body was discovered, she was smiling with her eyes shut and a singular teardrop running down her cheek.
My name is Y. It’s been some time since I’ve been able to write, I’ve just been quite busy with work. Just came back from a big presentation to a group of key shareholders. I was put on the spot a couple times, but I managed to keep my composure. I’ll get to see the kids this weekend, but I’ll have to finish this mapping overlay before I can give them any time. I’m sure they understand. Really, I wish she wanted to see me as much as I want to see her. But I guess she’s busy with her own life. Well, too bad for her that she doesn’t want to be a part of this empire. It’s just me in this tower of mine, and I’m happy. Everything I’ve done has made my family proud and I really couldn’t ask for more. Just a few more years and I’ll be able to fund my parent’s retirement. What a feeling that’s going to be. I have to get ready for tonight, I agreed to a social event with some colleagues of mine so… I’ve got to go. Maybe I can write some more in the future, but this is all for now. He died that night, stabbed to death by a drugged-out psycho on the way out of the venue. He died clutching his chest as he fell to the ground, his suit absorbing his blood. When his body was discovered, his eyes were wide and bulging, streaks of blood running down from the cracks of his mouth. A scream captured in statue form.
I’m torn into two, such visceral, such distinct pieces, that I can’t feel my middle anymore. It’s all just… empty space. I’m no he. I’m no she. But they’re nowhere to be found. What does it even mean to be them? Who are they?