now my conversations don't pass the bechdel test
Artist
Lee Karian
Author
Ramitha Nagarajan
20 October 2024
Lee Karian
Author
Ramitha Nagarajan
20 October 2024
If i write this in times new roman instead of my defaulted arial, i will take myself more seriously. The same way i intentionally type in lowercase to tell people im cooler than i am. A boy named Frank sings about familiar patchouli-scented hallways I've definitely wandered through before; he becomes my unconscious soundtrack as I write this, I transmute his ability to epitomize the feelings I can’t in what’s still yet to be said.
What’s yet to be said:
is that i was not supposed to be your girl. Pretty in pink like greta’s girls in late july.
Thunberg reminds us that the world is heating up. I can feel it too.
is that i forgot that being cool meant not being warm. but that being hot was ok. I tell myself that it’s fall; this must be what the first season of harvest feels like. i feel when the lump named Adam forms in my throat and the tips of my ears (except for my left helix’s cartilage) and the Apples of my cheeks start to resemble apples themselves. I listen to rotten to the core by lexa gates to convince everyone but myself that i give no fucks.
My eyes wonder while my brain wanders. You are the heat that scalds my tongue and leaves me numb to everything else. This boy frank sings of something sweet called novacane without an i, and you seem to have stolen not one but two from me. I’m beginning to think a symptom of your use is stupidity, sheer as the gloss and embellishment i’ve been hoping would distract you from my inherent pinklessness, the only fallacy that i’ve successfully scripted for myself: untactile, incompetent, unfuckable. Do the words evade you too?
and speaking of heat: matches are made in heaven but one has never been struck. if hell is hot im sure heaven is a cold place.
worn out things cannot be restrung. Only reassured that they were once harbored, will still hold room somewhere in the space in between. Just like how the boy named Frank plainly says that the feeling deep down is good. Even if your waves wouldn’t dip i still found myself skinny dipping in them until i hit sanded surface. I wish whatever it was were stronger, passed my threshold, but instead of the sting i just feel the soreness. Instead of seeing and peeling the fresh scab my fingers graze the bruise. i once thought only ripe ready things could be bruised.
with you all my sentences start with prepositions and end with glottal stops that could either be me interrupting myself or a real question mark: i simply do not know.
iterations of self
tampon that looks like a stingray
earbud like a lasso
condensation on an iced coffee with hair sticking to kt
Wring my mind out until it’s dry like a towel, until my hands are calloused too
Monkey bar callouses
Im aching for the time when my pain was physical
meeting your maker
FINAL:
Now my conversations don’t pass the bechdel test
This has been a year coming and I’ve had to bid adieu the parts I’ve aged out of. I still think if I write this in Times New Roman instead of my defaulted arial, I will take myself more seriously. The same way i intentionally type in lowercase to tell people im cooler than i am.
Femininity and chalance can be cool, i’ve learned, depending on who’s doing it. So I give it a shot, donning a pink baby phat top as if i'm one of greta’s girls in late july. Thunberg reminds us that the world is heating up. I can feel it too, forgetting that being cool means not being warm. but that being hot is ok. Carry summer into fall, the burden of a spare number that needs to be summed anywhere but the one’s place. this must be what the first season of harvest feels like. i feel a lump named adam form in my throat and suddenly the tips of my ears (except for my left helix’s cartilage) and the apples of my cheeks match my costume. do you feel the world warm up too or is it just mine?. I’m leaned against a door, my right EarPod on my wired headphones swung around my index finger like a lasso, being the cowboy as Mitski tells me that she’s a geyser bubbling from below. i scrape the edge of the curb like the sides of a runny sundae, lightly running my shoe over it to release only the softer gravel. Everything i hold seems to have a mind of its own. a stradda matcha conscious of the tense environment it’s in and condensing, crying as if to influence me to follow its ways. I shed hairs instead, squeamish at the thought of them clinging to something so cold. endo exo endo exo hopefully ending in my vitrification, stronger but who am i fooling when im still fragile and see-through.
Mitski shut up i hear something. Stop the lasso. A bee buzzes into my left ear like a siren, says “I love you to death”. it’ll hurt but you will hurt me more. I must be deluded.
come to your senses. I know im not shallow but if i am i blame it on the fact that there’s no more noise except for the white blankness in my head that’s made me ocularcentric. My eyes wonder while my brain wanders. You are the heat that scalds my tongue and leaves me numb to everything else. Next on queue this boy frank sings of something sweet called novacane without an i, and you seem to have stolen not one but two from me. I’m beginning to think a symptom of your use is stupidity, sheer as the gloss and embellishment i’ve been hoping would distract you from my inherent pinklessness, the only fallacy that i’ve successfully scripted for myself: untactile, incompetent, unfuckable. Do the words evade you too?
and speaking of heat: matches are made in heaven but one has never been struck. if hell is hot im sure heaven is a cold place. I think you meet your maker (or the ghost thereof) twice: once when you are born into your mother’s arms and the next when you are held by your first love. And your iterations of self are everything in between. My wearing pink, my wringing out my mind until it’s dry like a towel, mine this and that. my face is all wet from the salt on my wounds because i’ve made myself small like the matcha i hold that feels as though it’s callousing my hands. im aching for a time when pain was only physical.
But it’s all too much, so i blame it on the cotton stingray hanging out of my vagina soaking up the blood that seeps out when i write to kill your name but all it does is keep it alive.
What’s yet to be said:
is that i was not supposed to be your girl. Pretty in pink like greta’s girls in late july.
Thunberg reminds us that the world is heating up. I can feel it too.
is that i forgot that being cool meant not being warm. but that being hot was ok. I tell myself that it’s fall; this must be what the first season of harvest feels like. i feel when the lump named Adam forms in my throat and the tips of my ears (except for my left helix’s cartilage) and the Apples of my cheeks start to resemble apples themselves. I listen to rotten to the core by lexa gates to convince everyone but myself that i give no fucks.
My eyes wonder while my brain wanders. You are the heat that scalds my tongue and leaves me numb to everything else. This boy frank sings of something sweet called novacane without an i, and you seem to have stolen not one but two from me. I’m beginning to think a symptom of your use is stupidity, sheer as the gloss and embellishment i’ve been hoping would distract you from my inherent pinklessness, the only fallacy that i’ve successfully scripted for myself: untactile, incompetent, unfuckable. Do the words evade you too?
and speaking of heat: matches are made in heaven but one has never been struck. if hell is hot im sure heaven is a cold place.
worn out things cannot be restrung. Only reassured that they were once harbored, will still hold room somewhere in the space in between. Just like how the boy named Frank plainly says that the feeling deep down is good. Even if your waves wouldn’t dip i still found myself skinny dipping in them until i hit sanded surface. I wish whatever it was were stronger, passed my threshold, but instead of the sting i just feel the soreness. Instead of seeing and peeling the fresh scab my fingers graze the bruise. i once thought only ripe ready things could be bruised.
with you all my sentences start with prepositions and end with glottal stops that could either be me interrupting myself or a real question mark: i simply do not know.
iterations of self
tampon that looks like a stingray
earbud like a lasso
condensation on an iced coffee with hair sticking to kt
Wring my mind out until it’s dry like a towel, until my hands are calloused too
Monkey bar callouses
Im aching for the time when my pain was physical
meeting your maker
FINAL:
Now my conversations don’t pass the bechdel test
This has been a year coming and I’ve had to bid adieu the parts I’ve aged out of. I still think if I write this in Times New Roman instead of my defaulted arial, I will take myself more seriously. The same way i intentionally type in lowercase to tell people im cooler than i am.
Femininity and chalance can be cool, i’ve learned, depending on who’s doing it. So I give it a shot, donning a pink baby phat top as if i'm one of greta’s girls in late july. Thunberg reminds us that the world is heating up. I can feel it too, forgetting that being cool means not being warm. but that being hot is ok. Carry summer into fall, the burden of a spare number that needs to be summed anywhere but the one’s place. this must be what the first season of harvest feels like. i feel a lump named adam form in my throat and suddenly the tips of my ears (except for my left helix’s cartilage) and the apples of my cheeks match my costume. do you feel the world warm up too or is it just mine?. I’m leaned against a door, my right EarPod on my wired headphones swung around my index finger like a lasso, being the cowboy as Mitski tells me that she’s a geyser bubbling from below. i scrape the edge of the curb like the sides of a runny sundae, lightly running my shoe over it to release only the softer gravel. Everything i hold seems to have a mind of its own. a stradda matcha conscious of the tense environment it’s in and condensing, crying as if to influence me to follow its ways. I shed hairs instead, squeamish at the thought of them clinging to something so cold. endo exo endo exo hopefully ending in my vitrification, stronger but who am i fooling when im still fragile and see-through.
Mitski shut up i hear something. Stop the lasso. A bee buzzes into my left ear like a siren, says “I love you to death”. it’ll hurt but you will hurt me more. I must be deluded.
come to your senses. I know im not shallow but if i am i blame it on the fact that there’s no more noise except for the white blankness in my head that’s made me ocularcentric. My eyes wonder while my brain wanders. You are the heat that scalds my tongue and leaves me numb to everything else. Next on queue this boy frank sings of something sweet called novacane without an i, and you seem to have stolen not one but two from me. I’m beginning to think a symptom of your use is stupidity, sheer as the gloss and embellishment i’ve been hoping would distract you from my inherent pinklessness, the only fallacy that i’ve successfully scripted for myself: untactile, incompetent, unfuckable. Do the words evade you too?
and speaking of heat: matches are made in heaven but one has never been struck. if hell is hot im sure heaven is a cold place. I think you meet your maker (or the ghost thereof) twice: once when you are born into your mother’s arms and the next when you are held by your first love. And your iterations of self are everything in between. My wearing pink, my wringing out my mind until it’s dry like a towel, mine this and that. my face is all wet from the salt on my wounds because i’ve made myself small like the matcha i hold that feels as though it’s callousing my hands. im aching for a time when pain was only physical.
But it’s all too much, so i blame it on the cotton stingray hanging out of my vagina soaking up the blood that seeps out when i write to kill your name but all it does is keep it alive.
