Today I am delighted to share ‘mollitia (soft): a response to Catullus 16 by Isabella Redmayne.
How did I get here? you ask the cold plane of your face in the bathroom mirror of your bedsit at twenty-two.
They told me I was soft as butter – smile, eyes, tear ducts, thighs, breasts, belly, buttocks, legs. Sugar and spice, baby; peachy, honey.
You didn’t understand. My bones are hard. Not as hard as me right now. I can kick. Not as hard as me right now. I can hit. I’ll hit you harder.
Try to build anything from cream; the peaks collapse in the bowl in minutes like a face turning in – like an eight-year-old face turning in and saying no. Your mother always said you were strong. You shut your face.
The face in the mirror hasn’t changed since then, but it’s steel now and it reflects.
The mirror is cracked in one corner. Fucking student landlords – what can I say? What’s the point of trying to fight them? There aren’t any properties better on the market. You don’t have a leg to stand on, a doughy, downy, little leg to stand on as best you can, baby. Fight me as best you can.
You can cry, they say. You can love, love all of them, they say. (But most of all, love me.) I’ll carry you with my big strong arms and I’ll be hard for you and you’ll be soft.
My mind is strong you say. What can you say when you’re scared by your reflection? Who is that? You say. Who is that woman there? She’s strong, I say. Strong.