Tonight I lounge on my bed in a t-shirt and underwear, while the sky darkens. Violet, like my bruised shin. The words on this screen feel more real than me. I am woman, maybe. Quasi-woman. Medusa. What’s a woman but an idea? Galatea, carved from stone. The cut of a shirt (billowy, to accommodate breasts, real or padded or silicone). Maybe lipstick. Draw on kohl, as if a chisel finding blood in marble.

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