Berlin, summer, 2006.
Knowing the price of my flesh; a tank of diesel, thick & heavy like your body. It is this thing I can never escape but in this moment has granted me some freedom (I think); enough fuel to run away from broken hearts and maybe even reach Romania. It is stuck, a pin up, pinned up by capitalism and I can’t really take it down off the wall, can’t stop it from being looked at, held up high though it feels worthless. However big my shirt is you will always find my breasts.
When I was 17 I tried really hard to get fat. Spent dark countryside nights smoking weed & eating icecream in car garages, leaning on pool tables and losing at poker. It was an attempt to not be looked upon, to gain weight to stop carrying the weight of gazes.
But its much darker now. I’m parked by a river bank outside some factory warehouses, with the haze of relentless party’s beating. You don’t quite beat me, you are so strong you don’t need to. I know we’ve made a deal, I am a transaction, but I didn’t read, didn’t imagine the small print and now I want out.
Everything I’ve taught myself about surviving solo in my van is back firing; I’m so good at making it secure, impenetrable, discrete, so no one knows I’m here. No one knows I’m here. And now I need them to but I can't tell them. I didn’t know I sold my voice with my body.
I watch the light change through cracks in the wall panels and on the contours of your skin; thick muscles and sharp angles holding me down until sunrise.