I will perform my gender well, Daddy.
Wrap my neck in your expensive silk leash.
I will carve the binary into my ribs like a price tag.
Whatever the hell it is you want to buy today.
I am aiming for the transparency of the glass.
The number on the scale is a countdown to none.
I will shave the spirit until it is smooth enough for your touch.
I will be the perfect porcelain void you require.
And in return, you will reward me with the crumbs of your attention.
You will remember my name for more than half an hour.
Before the gin kicks in and the infant formula curdles in your throat.
Before you move on to the next virgin skin.
I am dancing in the blood of my own history to keep you from looking away.
I am the emaciated truth of your desire.
I smell like warm vanilla and industrial sugar.
A rehearsed desirability wrapped in a pink thong.
The scent of a trap laid in the nursery.
We are taught from the first breath to rehearse our own consumption.
To be an Angel on a runway while our names are etched on a List.
The wings are made of lead.
The pink is the colour of a raw sex wound.
Groomed to be the version of girlhood they can stomach.
A sanitised, hairless, frost-coated ghost.
The necrophiliacs of the living want the scent of the cradle on the skin of the woman.
Grooming is not an event, it is a climate.
It does not stop when the childhood ends.
It trains the eagerness to please every adult in every room.
It makes us chase the aesthetic adolescence because womanhood is too heavy to swallow.
Britney in a school uniform, a national anthem of the predator.
We called it normal while the gears ground her bones.
Shamed and discarded the moment we reclaim the throttle.
They prefer us young because the young are easier to map.
The more wealth they gained, the more they wanted in.
The more they wanted to clear-cut the wild forest of the adults.
Epstein is not a one-off; he is the logical conclusion of the suit.
I am starving the milk from the breast.
Sanding down the curve of the hip until the bone screams.
The diet, a surgical erasure of the mother.
A tactical retreat into the nursery.
I count the ribs in the anaemic light of the mirror.
Twenty four bars of a cage I am trying to shrink.
The piano keys of my hunger play a tune for ghosts.
The zero on the scale is a countdown to the cradle.
The skincare regime on the screen: a ritual of erasure.
Ten-year-olds in the ring light performing smooth for digital gaze.
Teaching the girl and the presenting to need to be watched.
Rewarding the performance of our own disappearance.
Shrinking woman to find the child they can sell.
The bathroom, a white-tiled slaughterhouse for the woman I became.
The blade, a cold tongue licking the history from my shins.
The beauty standard, a surgical strike against the arrival of the adult.
It is the strip-mining of the pore, the industrial removal of the musk.
I scrape the salt of labour and the scent of the cycle into the drain.
The shamed armpit: a crime scene of maturity.
A dark thicket of rebellion they want clear-cut for the landlord’s transit.
They demand the smooth pit because they demand the silent witness of the girl.
The hair is the dark forest where the state cannot follow.
When we shave, we are clear-cutting the wild for their investment.
This is the symbolic eunuchification of the revolutionary.
A slow crawl back to the nursery on bleeding knees.
A ritual of self-mutilation for the perverts who fear the clock.
This is the camouflage of the predator.
The ruling class demands the hairless skin and the hidden grey.
A mandated uniform of the prepubescent.
So the child can be lost in the crowd of women.
A tactical mimicry where the victim and the adult wear the same skin.
Turning the beauty standard into a cloak of invisibility.
The smooth leg is the mask of the nursery.
The lack of grey is the erasure of the witness.
They own the skyscrapers, but they are starving for the soft-spot on the skull.
The stock exchange, a butcher’s block of the unscarred.
Innocence is the only currency that hasn’t been devalued by their greed.
A cannibal’s economy, a surgical transplant of the soul.
They want the child to play the adult’s rot.
Trading our futures for a seat in the cradle.
The state is the wound, and the suit is the rot.
Facilitators, straight white ghosts in the high rises.
Heavy gold watches, hungry eyes that hate the widening hip.
The nursery is a trading floor of unscarred meat.
The scent of the state is infant formula and expensive gin.
The breath of the ruling class: the rot of the unborn.
They want the girl before the grit of the world touches her.
They want the boy before the conscience takes root.
Hollowing out the man to build a machine of scar tissue.
He is a weapon forged in the same factory that makes our razors.
He must kill the child inside him to survive the lunch meeting.
He is the predator they built to guard the silence of the nursery.
The glitch is the red smile stitched across the chest where the milk was murdered.
We are the rust on the razor of the pedophile state.
The dark forest rises from the root, a coarse mutiny against blade.
The shadow between the legs is a thicket they cannot clear-cut.
The musk of the adult is a poison in a sterile nursery.
We are the walking infection in his house of porcelain dolls.
The unwritten history returning to the bone.
Am I not man enough to be your little girl?
I am a bloodied fist in the mouth of the boardroom.
The coarse rebellion the razor cannot reach.
The sink is a throat choked with the hair of the dead.
The blood in the basin: the only honest thing left in the house.
The red tulip of the cut, the evidence of the adult pulse.
The bright proof that I am still meat, not just a surface.
Flayed of our history to satisfy the landlord.
The neat standard: the ultimate hygiene of the soul.
The ethnic cleansing of the self, the removal of the grit.
The razor: cold steel against the throat of the revolution.
Every morning, we pay the tax in skin.
Every morning, we bleed to prove we are not animals.
Every morning, we die a little more to stay young enough to be useful.
The planet is screaming under the weight of the suit.
The baby is screaming in the shadow of the island.
And we are standing at the sink.
Sharpening the blade for our own throats.
Spitting the blood back into the white eye of the state.
Waiting for a name that will never be spoken with love.
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