by Marni Grossman

In The Beginning There Was This: Fat

And then I started cutting

“Behold,” my arms cry. “My bourgeois pain!” “Hark, my narcissism!” The bloody gashes weep with melodramatic intensity, drawn by an angst-ridden author, stroked into being by a sure artist’s hand. My arms are like a Jackson Pollock painting, I say. Seemingly random, the marks have been applied with painstaking precision. Pollock applied his paint not with broad swaths, but careful drips. I apply mine with a steady grip and the most precise of tools. Pollock worked with a brooding intensity, unable to see beyond the task at hand. I work feverishly, too, mind numb to everything but the blades and the blood. His palette was never particularly varied and neither is mine. Shades of purple, echoes of white, salmon. red.

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