43. Little Deaths / Little Delights

Hailey Cognetti ➳ Bella Ve

To reach out with the intent to touch. To risk the skin peeled back, to let the air in, to be claimed by the delicate finger of everything unknown. What is the right touch to the wound, if not softly? I extend my arm foolishly between my body and the space that is not me. With these fingers I wipe my tears and I pull and rip my skin till I bleed.

And in this unkept bed I trash my limp body. But I will fall asleep anyway, and suddenly the return of the repressed is forced upon me. In my dreams I am the one who touches and runs away. In my dreams I can taste the salt from the tears that never touched my face during the day. I can hear my screams. I am all things at once and I am begging for life.

I beg as I try to sleep.

I bleed longing, it seeps into the sheets, slipping right through my fingers. I bleed longing, not in sharp bursts, but in a way that spreads, that consumes. I bleed longing in a way that my skin aches and heals from my own actions.

Finishing notes…..

I wrote this in my journal on October eleventh when I was thinking about my habit of picking the skin around my fingers when I’m stressed. This is nearly all the time, and my fingers hurt ridiculously bad when I type this. I was thinking about the intention to touch anything, with a soft or harsh touch, how it’s my own delicate fingers removing layers of skin - what is supposed to protect me - my skin and my intentions - now draws blood.

It’s getting late and right about now nothing can kill my vibe, I’m ready for the peaceful dreamy sleep that’s ahead of me. But before I delve into slumber I’m passing the torch to Bella Ve — my favorite femcel<3 a girl I’ll never forget, who’s words mean so much to me.

stay soft, get eaten

Hailey Cognetti

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My name is not Bella but I am Bella Ve. I am her and she is me and the two of we makes one whole me and a whispering of she. 

We are me plus she because the only girl I would want to be is me times three times a couple other times she. 

Bella Ve is named for the Bellaves, 

and as for me:

That’s not important right now. 

If I am the artist, her life is the art. How do I put it? How do I look at her? The voyeur in the looking glass. How do I become her without losing myself? Without being less myself? Who could I be but me who is she? 

Leaner. Tighter. Ass higher? Fuck that fearless; brave; kind; observant?

I guess. 

Brilliant; funny; effortlessly effervescent; likable; outgoing; introspective? 

Sure. 

I live outside and she lives within. She becomes when she is born through my work and my art. Her voice speaks through my fingers and onto my paper and is read by your eyes and is understood by you. She lives only as long as there is someone to read her. So thank you, to you, to the someone, you, who gives her life. 

I want to spend our season together exploring the construction and deconstruction of identity, and how we can become ourselves and shape ourselves into the people that we want to be. I want to explore what is real about us, if anything. I want to be everything. 

LITTLE DEATHS

• A lack of hours in the day

• Hard water 

LITTLE DELIGHTS

• Distorted reflections 

• Trying in earnest 

• Sobriety 

• Extraversion