A response to, in conversation with, with regards to, The Entire [REDACTEDRED] of [REDAC TE DRE DACTE]

by Serafina Cusack

In 2005 you are eight years old and only sort of know what sex is and you do not find [RED] attractive at all. Long spidery clockwork orange lashes and you hate to be shushed like that by your mum or other grown-ups or anyone. And you will still not know what sex is for years, years after you did it even.

This may call for a proper introduction,
and well, don't you see?,
I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue.

In 2009, after a long-ish break hiding in a remote cabin in rural Nevada, [REDAC TE DRE DACTE] arrive in Shepherd’s Bush.

Oh, how it's been so long
We're so sorry we've been gone
We were busy writing songs for you

And that’s where you are, with flowers in your hair and a headache that could split the concrete in two if it would only climb out of your skull. And you are trying not to cry because if you cry then it will make the pain brighter and you might lose use of your queuing limbs and your dad drove you all the way here because you really have shown quite a consistent love for [REDACT].

I feel marooned in this body
Deserted, my organs can go on without me

In 2018 you are twenty-one years old and you have very almost broken up with your boyfriend even though he is only five foot seven and you drink pisco sours because he doesn’t know what pisco is and it’s your favourite and he says don’t do it and you say I know what I’m doing and you cling to some sort of nostalgia because when you stare at him, the white pisco making him pale, the future looks bleak.

I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it again
I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it, I did it again
I did it, Who did it? I did it, Who did it? I did it, Who did it? I did it,
I did it again I did it, Who did it? I did it, Who did it? I did it, Who did it?
I did it, I did it again

Loving [REDAC TE DRE DACTE] was something you burned into your chest then something you dug a ditch for then something you giggled through then something you traced into your skin. You were not embarrassed when you had to call your bank and explain what happened. They said, the reference is [REDAC] and you sigh because really that’s irrelevant.

I think of you from time to time
More than I thought I would
You were just too kind and I was too young to know
That's all that really matters

And after that you just kind of stopped. Because you know what sex is and you broke up with your short boyfriend and you hate twitter. So, what else is there? It is just now a quiet part of you, no words to respond with/to. And only every now and then do you consume every part of [RED] and now [RE] has broken up with [REDACTE] which is actually just quite fucking funny.

Are you ready for the sequel?
Ain't you ready for the latest?

Serafina Cusack is a playwright and poet from London, living in Glasgow. Writing in a unique, fast-paced style, she writes about terrible people from terrible cities doing terrible things.  She recently won the Book Edit Writer’s Prize and has been published in Fleet Magazine and Blue Villa. Currently, she is studying for a Master’s in Creative Writing at The University of Glasgow.