Who Want Me?

Who Want Me?

By Olivia Camillin

What is it about me that I can’t stop myself from being all of the personality disorders wrapped up into one horrifying package?

Men are stupid, and they can’t help it because they just are. 

I can’t help it for them. You can lead a horse to water, 

or maybe you can’t. How, do you expect, would I know something so absurd like that? Girl, wake up!

Anyways, Men Are Stupid, and I don’t respect them. 

Clearly. But whenever I meet a new one I’m like a dog when the bell rings. 

Only it’s me ringing the bell. 

Every time. 

I see them, and it's Cristina Yang in her first surgery - every time. There’s something about them: 

so shiny, and new. 

Young and fresh. 

No matter how old they are - 

Since I was 13, it’s always been the same. 

They’re so… happy. 

Even the depressed ones. 

The ones that cut themselves in the dark, 

The ones that are in emo bands,

The ones that have had every girl within a 5km radius,

The ones that have travelled the world - 

They’re all the same. I sometimes feel like I control them all. 

The ones that want to be lawyers, 

The ones that already are, 

The ones that are honourable, 

Even the ones that are old enough to be my father. Well, maybe not that old. 

They’re all quite similar: they have shiny eyes, and bouncy hair (or lack thereof), and red cheeks. 

Even if their cheeks aren’t even that red, I can see past their skin, into their blood, you know? I look at them, and I think about how nice it would be to claw their eyes out. 

Oh, yeah. How nice it would be to press on their gunshot wound, whatever it is, for hours. 

Push down with both hands like I’m giving it CPR. 

No, it’s not a schoolgirl crush, it’s love. Horrific, dirty, socially undesirable love. 

                                                  If you’ll draw your eyes to your left, you’ll see today’s landmark. 

Oh, sure. The delicate blue eyes, the ones that look like ice water rather than an ocean or the sky. 

The palest blonde hair you’ve ever seen, but it is not bleached and you know that. Subconsciously. It’s shaved, barely there and still you can see the shine. Shimmer. Glimmer. Just like that Barbie movie about Paris. 

He’s alternative, 

he’s different, 

he’s not like those other guys. 

His outfit is screaming these affirmations like a goddamned tarot card

but you see past it. He’s just a boy. 

He’s young. 

He thinks he is the most manipulative one on the terrace right now, but you’re here and so that can’t be.

You think to tell him to go make his tiktok e-boy music on his 2i2,

to get out of here while he can. 

He would never listen. He would say 

“oh, it can’t be that bad''.

It can be. How would he know that? 

He sees the best. 

They always do. 

He’s seen the hills in Scotland

, or the noodles in Vietnam

, or something.

It won’t be too hard to find his Instagram. 

You think to give it a go, just to prove you still have the talent for stalking meaningless strangers.

Some witty joke in his name, that’s usually the key. 

Otherwise, it’s the full name. 

Sometimes it’s both.                           (Those are the ones that don’t know what a period is.)

And then the shame begins. It washes over you in an uncontrollable tsunami

 that brings with it slimy oil and stinging salt. You’re a snake,

 and they never see you coming, mainly because they don’t want to.

 See him looking around, completely unaware. 

How ethereal is that gaze? 

It’s golden. 

They truly have so much to learn, and so much time. 

They always do, even the old ones still have hope. 

How nice. But

 anyway. 

You click through the photographs - same every time. 

Travelling, 

friends, 

2020 aesthetics. 

Oh, and look! 

A blonde girl. 

What a shock. 

They want you to believe they’re different. 

She’s nothing to worry about. 

She’s just a friend. 

A friend who you’d screw, you always think to say. 

Their innocence is palpable in the lies they think they can get away with.

 I’ve never had sex! I’m a virgin! I promise! 

Yes, a likely story. 

Always the same. 

But it’s just a photo. There’s one in every grid. 

She’s beautiful, 

and they might just be friends, 

and the tan is likely fake, 

but either way look at his glowing eyes. 

They almost match hers. 

And she’s either a beautiful little fool, 

or another layer out again. 

Either way, she has managed it. 

She is token blonde girl - she proves that our subject is not gay. 

She also proves that he still likes “normal women” which is code for 

Wildly Beautiful Women Who Are Out Of Their League 

and also painfully vanilla in a way that

only a certain type of white girl can pull off 

convincingly. Our subject is smug. 

You can see it from here, and it does not photograph well.