Little girl wasteland Molly Rynne When I was a little girl, all I wanted to do was grow up. So I did what grown up ladies do best and punched a hole in my reflection and grabbed the shards of glass that shattered around my calloused hands and slit my throat and drew pretty lipstick pictures around the bloodletting of my innocence and continued to ignore the dark red shit that spilled from every other woman’s neck just like they would my own. In adolescence I learned to shove thongs in my jugular and sterilize the wound with perfume samples. I readily accepted my position as a water fountain for the men around me, letting them remove the delicate pink lace and suck me dry and I was so happy to have others licking my wounds that I didn’t even feel it when they began to sink in their teeth. Entering adulthood I begin to shove peaches and cream in my mouth to distract from the puddle of thick tears that stain my french tips when I bend over and I ask him to choke me so that for one second I may stop bleeding and I let myself fall into sleep whenever possible because I am so scared of what I could say if I gave myself the chance. I’ve been bleeding far longer than others my age and I have starved and stabbed and pried upon the body that presents before me and when I look into the pieces of glass still embedded in my palms I can’t believe I still accuse it of being my own and while I vomit the peaches and the cream into your mouth I have only begun to realize that it never was.
