Taylor Swift Performs “Wildest Dreams” with a bit of “Enchanted” Mixed In At Soldier Field And I Am in the Crowd Weeping
Taylor Swift is a clone. Made by the DNA of Zeena Lavey who in 1985 became the high priestess of the Church of Satan pic.twitter.com/7M2GvtAaZQ
— lisa (@ch3apthrills) July 29, 2016
In 1985, I was not the high priestess of anything, and in 2016, I am not Taylor Swift. These facts aside, it is worth noting that every fashionable coffee shop in the world has one of us curled in the corner, greedily drinking and writing and brushing butter-pastry crumbs from our lips. There’s not enough coffee in the world to keep our ghosts in their graves. I walk until my little toe pokes through a hole in the side of my right shoe. I’m learning to love the taste of juniper, the dryness of airplane air, a new sunrise every weekend.
They’re playing “22” at the gas station and even though I am fucking exhausted, half-way between Georgia and home, I can look in the mirror and marvel, struck by my own unrecognizable reflection. My thighs bear the inscriptions “Hail Satan” and “Hope.” Truthful incantations. My biology no longer dictates my path.
Align your fortunes with patron saint Swift and you find signs and miracles everywhere with a radio. We’ve both built our own castles, and while mine is built with the things that ruined me, it is my kingdom– you know the saying? Better to rule than serve, regardless of the accommodations. I’m just kidding, I know you read Milton in high school.
They say God is everywhere but how often do you walk into a Sunoco at 3 AM and hear their voice?
Taylor Swift’s Music Video for Begin Again
A pop song is like a mark or a wound. It exists for all the world to see. A visible injury.
I sit and eat with Allison and we’re cursing about how fucking good the food is. Like– no shit, this cost one hundred fucking dollars, but I never expected to eat anything like this, and we’re eating a miso custard tart topped with sake-soaked rhubarb and matcha meringue and the alcohol-bitterness unfolds into light and sweetness and what the fuck, Allison, what the fuck, how did we get here? I sink into being overwhelmed.
Teeth and tongue constantly surprised but also recognized, welcomed home.
I scan your bookshelf, the way I always do in a new house. I watch an ad about the dangers of smoking and chew the inside of my cheek to try and clear my mind. Lust curls into the most unexpected places. There’s no danger in this pristine European city but back at home,
I wake up with small sore oval indentations of redness in the fleshy part of my hand.
I want to know the strength of your jaw. I am dreaming about your teeth in my skin.
Taylor Swift performs Treacherous for Selected Fans Before the Release of RED
Speak to me with your hands. It’s the only way to talk when the music is this loud.
I want to smile at you but I’m dragging someone by their neck because it’s that kind of show, so I am preoccupied. You know all the words, screaming along and I’m stuck with this stranger and their flailing body, but you’ve been noticed, and I catch you sneaking glances at me.
Later, pressed against your dad’s car, I am terrified and ecstatic and they loop together and I can’t catch my reeling thoughts. Your hands are solid and demanding, and I am shaking from the comedown, viscous against the door handle in my back. Your hands press and clutch and I will have red lines from your nails later.
I am still mostly fluid an hour later. I interrupt to ask for a ride to work in your hand-me-down two door sedan. You are cold and quiet on the drive to a hotel in the Boston suburbs, and I’m scared of both of us in this moment. There’s dried blood on my face, my lips and I can see in your eyes that you’d lick it off if you were allowed.
I wish I’d let you.
Taylor Swift performs Haunted on her Speak Now Tour
I lie in bed, and listen to church bells, and I think of you.
My strongest memory: you opened the taxi door and politely vomited into the street. I’ve only thrown up from drinking too much eggnog at a loft party in New York City. I made a bet with some bike messengers and I won but cream and stomach bile never really comes out of a pair of shoes.
You were the first to get married.
I will always remember the morning after. I got kicked off the train because a woman told me that the train was free on Sunday, and I almost missed my flight home. The day you got married was the first time you commented on my body, and I flushed with shame and pride and the first twinge of recognition that what you saw and what I lived in were incompatible fictions. There’s a story from the wedding night that I can’t repeat, but I hope you’re happy now. I’m not the type of girl to speak now, to believe I know someone’s heart, but I don’t know how to escape these doubts. I am so rarely able to hold on to any kind of peace. I will not answer your phone calls.
Please leave me like this.