Patrick Leger

I wouldn’t say it’s exactly like being a werewolf, but its close. There are mornings when I wake up and find my teeth too long in my mouth and my sheets smeared brown with a midnight nosebleed. I prowl and snap and massacre whole freezers full of hot pockets in literal seconds. I do not give a fuck. Werewolves do not give a fuck.

And then suddenly, I do. Suddenly, a mirror sneaks into my periphery and for one fantastic second I see myself like a specimen under glass and I think, That girl is the finest fucking motherfucker in the fucking world. Even before I know its me, I want to be her, and then subsequently clone her at least twelve times so I can look at her from all possible angles always. I would start wars for her if I were burly and Greek and a dude; I would throw rare orchids at her feet so they never touched the floor of my horrible apartment.

Then I realize it is me, and I notice some things. The board-flat nose that classical painters tend to freak out over but I’ve never really liked; the ketchup stains all over whatever white thing I am an inevitably wearing because I can’t keep more than 20% of my food in my mouth when I eat; the fat parts; the bone-stabbing-out parts; the teeth that are already turning canine, yellowing.

There is no good way to talk about being a beautiful woman because no women are beautiful. We are beasts until the chandelier light baptizes us; then, we are simply hunted.

Art by Patrick Leger.