Borrowed

I don’t mark my life in years or school classes. I mark it in girls—the ones I chased, the ones who took something from me, the ones who ripped me open. Female creatures, each one a season, months or years of overlap and then the exit. Sacred or sloppy, doesn’t matter. They all proved the same thing: I need someone nearby who inspires me or calls me on my bullshit, regardless of whether we’re together.

I feel like a busted Care Bear sometimes—this thing supposed to radiate infinite goodwill, except the rays have to go somewhere. They land on whoever’s in range. Love thy neighbor. The moment I meet a woman whose taste or energy I can absorb, I’m in. I suck it dry. What’s she listening to? What shoes? What shows? If she says something good, I’m already thinking about how it becomes part of me.

The problem is I can’t separate anymore. Most of my bands, most of my clothes, most of my jokes aren’t mine. Ana gave me Muse. Chrissy wore Adidas Superstars so now I do. Jenny’s way of insulting cashiers—that’s mine now, or was hers, or came from me through her. It’s all tangled, red threads through the years, and I don’t know where any of it started.

Somewhere between the borrowing and the paranoia, I think I’m just rationalizing. Everyone starts as an original and dies as a copy of a thousand influences. So maybe it’s better to steal from beautiful women who actually have something going on than to let yourself be shaped by algorithms, false friends, and people who don’t care. Maybe being a parasite is just how people actually work.

I’m waiting for the next one. Whoever she is, whatever she brings. I know I’ll end up wearing her life for a while.