Taylor Olsen
my body is so young and tired
day one and she’s bleeding. a dot but it feels biblical, red tide, plague of self. lace so fragile,
bleach kills everything soft. she googles: how to save something already ruined. no one answers.
her mother texts late, a string of hearts, advice about cold water, baking soda, she deletes it like
vengeance, like she is the god of small violences. victories.
she tells herself cotton next time. packs of eight, moral underwear, the kind that expects harm.
supermarket, aisle seven, greeting cards across the way, witnesses to a private eruption. but rent
first, and her roommate’s gone again, probably fallen in love with someone temporary. she thinks
of texting, decides against it. she doesn’t want to seem maternal. her own body’s already a
mother, hemorrhaging proof.
blood turns her sentimental. a ghost crawls out, thin-skinned and trembling, sticky with truth. she
wants to cradle something. instead she works. polyester pants, synthetic optimism. she texts her
boss not feeling well. boss says you can log in from home. the translation machine fails again.
she meant i’m a cathedral collapsing. she meant please stop asking me to pretend.
she sends a thumbs up. because that’s cheaper. opens the freezer. finds the chocolate pint. the
other pint. she is always buying in twos, preparing for absence, preparing for abundance, waiting
for someone to share it with.
she rests the ice cream on her stomach. heating pad below like a sandwich of comfort. she
scrolls. tiktok. instagram. r/periods. r/regret. r/amitheasshole. r/makeitstop. other women
bleeding into the feed. the feed bleeding back. she wants to ask if anyone else feels like a
haunted house but the comments are full of jokes.
computer dings. she blinks. remembers she’s a person, not an incinerator burning ounces of flesh.
sends a few emails. the sound of herself typing like rain on tin. but here’s the face behind the
camera: constellation of pimple patches, small galaxies of survival. lunch is three pills,
peppermint tea, a hushed pep talk.
she falls asleep before the final meeting ends. wakes to the smell of eggs. sulfur and domesticity.
she wants to vomit. roommate’s back, says you look like shit. she nods. she is tired of inventing
new selves for other people’s comfort. tired of inventing new selves. careful, your shirt’s stained.
the roommate points. don’t get it on my couch.
she looks down. a brown dot. dried blood, melted chocolate. she thinks of bleach and how it burns things clean, how it
kills life. she thinks of her body, her choice.
her mother, someone’s mother,
no one’s mother.
Taylor Olsen is a New Jersey–based writer whose work often explores love, unlikely relationships, and the messy, complicated beauty of everyday life. She has been published by Revolute, PHIL LIT Journal, and Dandelion Revolution Press among others. A graduate of Rowan University, Taylor is at work on her debut novel while continuing to publish poetry, short fiction, and essays. You can find her at taylorolsenauthor.com.
Banner Art:
Helen Frankenthaler, Requiem, 1992, Collection Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, Helen Frankenthaler Foundation
