Liar

There are some days when I don't want to be myself. There are some days when I wish I could forget how fat and thick I am and lie on the bed and with the agility of my two-year-old son, put the big toe in my mouth. There are some days when I wake into the mirror on a stillborn afternoon and wish my life was just like my hair, that I could fix it with a little bit of water on a bad hair day.
No. I don't want to write poetry, you fool. I don't want my words to sound poetic. In the middle of a nondescript day, with half desires buried in me, I try to make sense of it all. Curly hairs, svelte figures, sulky sexuality, spartan athleticism, petite, delicate, understated beauty, I have seen it all. I crave for roughness now. A dominatrix, maybe. Someone who will shake me off my stupor and rub red chilly powder in my eyes. Whip me into admitting that I am just as perverted as one of those six rapists. Grovel my nose into dirt and slap me hard so that I realise what a waste it has been so far.
But of course you won't understand anything. With the calm casualness of Mr/Ms know-it-all you will tell me what a brilliant post it has been. Liar!