Andromeda is impulsive, at times confused.

She makes mistakes like everybody else, wrong decisions.

She thinks she knows what she wants most of the time.

Andromeda prefers the images in her mind to the ones realised.


Andromeda is always disappointed by reality and what happens to her there.

There is no compatibility.

Nobody cares outside of her head and the smells get in and are more than real.

She bathes for hours when she has things planned.


Andromeda retires when necessary, she listens to her gut.

During the day she earns a basketful of names, all of them nailed onto her psyche.

Andromeda’s inner child ran away a long time ago.

And now she can’t find her no more.


Andromeda is always desired in cars, her life surrounded by cheap metal.

Her head is hitting the roof, there is no air.

The conversation can be erased from this world, it has no substance.

As nobody listens.


Andromeda is aroused yet is unsure about her actions.

The man is available, ready, unidentifiable.

Signals sent, skin touched, she gets insecure as she kisses him, thinks.

She is confronted with impatience, an ordering body that determines duration.


Andromeda’s stomach tells her ‘no’ and yet she went so far already. Her body

Automatic, blank, programmed to perform.

Who would understand the retreat, the rejection, the hurting of the ego?

What is wrong with you, Andromeda? What do you want?


When the sound of unzipped pants occurs, the expectation corners her.

Andromeda can’t feel anything. Everything shuts down and she knows.

She doesn’t want to, she can smell him, he is revealed, his eyes commanding.

The man is an agent of pressure and urgency, she cannot comply.


He sees her clear-sightedness, her unwillingness to cooperate, her resignation.

Furious, the object of mockery, time wasted, he calls her an ‘allumette’.

She doesn’t know what that word means at first. It’s new on the syllabus.

He says: ‘it’s what you are’ and puts his pants back on, enraged.






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