Waif

by Samantha Kolesnik

It was overt male rejection. Now that he knew I was attracted to him, he had to show me how little he cared. What the man didn’t understand, though, was that I could persist for a long time without reciprocation. Masochism was my talent.

That was the crux of my oppressive experience with men in the flesh—the ones you wished would touch you never did, and the ones you never wanted to touch you did so without asking.

I didn’t just hate men. I didn’t just hate the world. I hated myself. And everyone and everything who made me, only so a different set of people and things could break me.

I wanted to try him on, too, I finally admitted to myself, staring at my features in the antique mirror. I wanted to try him on and see if he finally made me something I liked better than my current model. I wanted to experience the sensation of this new man loving me and touching me, but not for the touch, just for the after effects. The transformation. I craved catalyst and excitement. I craved the mess I wasn’t allowed to have.

I wanted to consume everyone and everything like the leftover shrimp alfredo—ravenously and with abandon—and then I wanted to purge it all up, spew it back to whence it came, with no excuses and no remorse. I’d then draw a picture of myself, or take a photograph, and leave it for the next generation. Here was Woman. One of them, at least.