by Alanna Offield
I want someone to love me so much they peer into my windows at night sweating,
wondering how my flesh would feel against their teeth if they took a handful and ate it.
I want to be the subject of bathroom stall graffiti. I want to live inside of a man’s fantasy.
They will all want to fuck me and leave their wives and girlfriends just to be available
to bring me flowers and a takeaway. I want them to cry when I close doors in their faces.
I want to never feel hungry again. I want people of moderate strength to be able to swing me
over their shoulder and laughingly tell their friends how light I am, how portable.
I want strangers in shopping malls to ask if I am a model and tell me I should consider it
as a career choice. I want to be accused of setting unrealistic beauty standards for young girls.
I want mothers to say I’m a bad influence. I want to trigger countrywide low self-esteem.
I want to be tacked up on the dorm room walls of horny young men with bright futures.
I want to fuck someone in the bathroom of a bar, then outside in the alley, in their car,
and pretend not to know their name. I’ll be out of everyone’s league but still relatable.
I want to know I have enough money in my account without checking. I want my happiness
to be all anyone talks about. OK Magazine will put a photo of me on the cover,
I want the headline to say, “OUR LATEST OBSESSION!”
I want men to tattoo my name on their arms over and over until the letters loop
into illegible layers. I want my poems to be the top search result when people google
‘Best poems for funerals.” I want to be the source of an increase in clinical depression.
I want a serial killer to hack me to pieces with an axe and everyone to talk about how beautiful
I was in death as in life. I will be impossible, and I will never know loneliness.