A Slut for Glitter

Notes on becoming Perceived

I am covered in glitter from the inside of my soul to my eyelids to my breastbone; when it isn’t on me, it’s still there and I’ll make sure that you can see it. In my eyes? In my voice? In how I whisper to you on the sidewalk outside of a dive bar while we smoke a cigarette together?

To the blonde with the Pixie cut at Pride 2017 (the good one, you remember, where we still took over the streets and drank colored shots and left our cars overnight to stumble home at 1am, back when the Ho was still open; remember when we stayed there until 2am on June 26? and Lady Gaga could be heard singing from the broken stereo all down Water Street) - thank you for pulling glitter out of your purse for me to sprinkle on my body and connecting the lost puzzle piece of my personality then and there. I was glitter girl from then on, thanks to you.

I’m the glitter girl here, it’s spilling out of my fingernails onto my keyboard and into the screen to you - sprinkle a bit on your eyelids too. I’ll share it with everyone, I promise, I’m not shy about it. You can have these parts of me, you can kiss them or kick them or tell your friends I do it too much, that I whisper stories into the screen and into ears and project too loudly into the audience around me that isn’t listening. I’ll be easy about it - take some of my words, my insides, my guts and emotions and stories - take it all. I’ll be a slut with them, just for you.

Consider this my proclamation to the world that I’m going to be a SLUT with my work. Everyone can have it, but it’s still special and mine.