Cauliflour
The masochist who doodles.
- Mar 24, 2025
- 540
A woman sits at her desk, expressionless to the action she is committing. A pencil case sits to her right. A makeup bag to her left. Music droning from the middle: familiar tunes that she's listened to countless times before. Her hair is disobeying her wishes. Her skin shivers through the layers. Her stomach is protesting about the lack of vegetables in her evening meal. Her eyes demand to close, it's been a long day after all. Since the sun rose to the moon sent it glares, this body hasn't been co-operating well. It wanted some substance for it's blood.
Humanity has deemed certain dopamine abuses as perfectly fine and even preferable to natural states. Shops advertise their newest line of drinks. Corner shops lure you in with brightly coloured exhaust pipes. Adverts on TV lie about giving you the cure to boredom just with a few simple taps and on hand bank details. However some people don't want to have the finger of their preferred master looming over them, waiting for the perfect moment to squish them like the insignificant insect they are. That can't ground you. That can't send a signal so grounded in psyche that everyone knows what it is when you make it strike. They want to take matters into their own hands and become and entrepreneur.
Now, this woman never had an intention on becoming the servant to the cheapest drug that lies. She didn't know how to communicate within herself when the internet was being weighed upon. Nobody even suggested that would be a problem. Nobody elaborated or was held accountable for the body of someone else that she stole and slipped inside, unknown to the people she follows around in shopping centres and kitchens. She forgot for a while what she was doing but the mirror doesn't lie. She looked into their eyes and saw another woman staring right back at her.
Her hair seems oily.
Her skin looks tired.
And yet, she doesn't seem to match.
She wears the same hairstyle as she did. Same fashion sense, same knowledge, same experiences, but she can't be her.
The woman swipes her pointy credit cards over her least desired arm. One, two, one, one, two, three. Layers and layers of dead skin tattoo the wretched skin to the point no other eyes could possibly gaze upon this limb without starting an interrogation. Layers and layers and yet it wasn't enough. It didn't rip the same with the vessels being squashed and stretched so much that it stopped feeding into your reaction as much. Where did the liquid go? Shouldn't it be pouring out in waterfalls by now?
In front of her is a notebook. A ballpointed woman stares back at her with the face of undeniable lust. Her sunburnt cheeks of a blush soaked in the smears of a desperate artist. She is not the kind of drawing that can be viewed in an art gallery: organs sit comfortably within her peeled back skin as if to mock the exterior design philosophy of Mrs Mother Nature herself. The pain was felt, the shot was received and yet, there's still someone else in the mirror. The drugs didn't work. Blades sit comfortably in their hiding spot, ready to fall asleep. The drawing sits unfinished: another day will come. Normalcy can't be reached right now, something else is on the line. What it is is unknown but if the message isn't received soon then there will only be one woman present in the mirror's resting place, and she won't be present where you can reach.
But then again, how can you really tell what's well and what's flawed when you've seen no difference? To avoid future flashback sessions, the best course of action is to always feed the monster that lurks in your self esteem and follow the heart of sexism by going "nah it's probably nothing". Nobody will understand you anyway, there's proof in the HTMLs.
Humanity has deemed certain dopamine abuses as perfectly fine and even preferable to natural states. Shops advertise their newest line of drinks. Corner shops lure you in with brightly coloured exhaust pipes. Adverts on TV lie about giving you the cure to boredom just with a few simple taps and on hand bank details. However some people don't want to have the finger of their preferred master looming over them, waiting for the perfect moment to squish them like the insignificant insect they are. That can't ground you. That can't send a signal so grounded in psyche that everyone knows what it is when you make it strike. They want to take matters into their own hands and become and entrepreneur.
Now, this woman never had an intention on becoming the servant to the cheapest drug that lies. She didn't know how to communicate within herself when the internet was being weighed upon. Nobody even suggested that would be a problem. Nobody elaborated or was held accountable for the body of someone else that she stole and slipped inside, unknown to the people she follows around in shopping centres and kitchens. She forgot for a while what she was doing but the mirror doesn't lie. She looked into their eyes and saw another woman staring right back at her.
Her hair seems oily.
Her skin looks tired.
And yet, she doesn't seem to match.
She wears the same hairstyle as she did. Same fashion sense, same knowledge, same experiences, but she can't be her.
The woman swipes her pointy credit cards over her least desired arm. One, two, one, one, two, three. Layers and layers of dead skin tattoo the wretched skin to the point no other eyes could possibly gaze upon this limb without starting an interrogation. Layers and layers and yet it wasn't enough. It didn't rip the same with the vessels being squashed and stretched so much that it stopped feeding into your reaction as much. Where did the liquid go? Shouldn't it be pouring out in waterfalls by now?
In front of her is a notebook. A ballpointed woman stares back at her with the face of undeniable lust. Her sunburnt cheeks of a blush soaked in the smears of a desperate artist. She is not the kind of drawing that can be viewed in an art gallery: organs sit comfortably within her peeled back skin as if to mock the exterior design philosophy of Mrs Mother Nature herself. The pain was felt, the shot was received and yet, there's still someone else in the mirror. The drugs didn't work. Blades sit comfortably in their hiding spot, ready to fall asleep. The drawing sits unfinished: another day will come. Normalcy can't be reached right now, something else is on the line. What it is is unknown but if the message isn't received soon then there will only be one woman present in the mirror's resting place, and she won't be present where you can reach.
But then again, how can you really tell what's well and what's flawed when you've seen no difference? To avoid future flashback sessions, the best course of action is to always feed the monster that lurks in your self esteem and follow the heart of sexism by going "nah it's probably nothing". Nobody will understand you anyway, there's proof in the HTMLs.
