You could ask me my name and I could tell you that names don’t matter. That I was named after my grandmother from the moment that pink cross showed up on that white stick until my mother looked at me and somehow underneath the blood and placenta saw a Jasmine and so that is my name but would I have been any different, would we not be having this conversation right now had I been named something else?
You could tell me you think I’m beautiful. And I could tell you that I don’t want to be beautiful. That I shaved off all of my hair in my mother’s kitchen with my brother’s electric razor before getting on a plane to move to the other side of the world. I could ask you what you love most about yourself. I could ask you about vanity. And I could tell you to imagine throwing it away, that one thing, that thing that makes you beautiful.
You could try to kiss me and I could kiss you back. I could kiss you and pull your hair and bite your lips and grind my crotch into yours. I could kiss you like a woman and make you forget about all those girls who came before. I could kiss you and then disappear and leave you less, leave you empty, leave you missing something you never even knew you wanted.
You could fall in love with my tattoos that mean things and the ones that don’t. With my scars and my stories. With the strobe light dancing through the fabric of the best conversation you’ve ever had. With the way I make you feel like the most important person in the room and no one at the same time. With the way I make you think. With the way I make you think about thinking.
I could make you fall in love with me in five minutes.
But tomorrow, when you see that I’m just like the rest of them? Tomorrow when I don’t want to be mysterious anymore. Tomorrow when I am jealous and insecure and needy. Tomorrow when I love you back.
Would you love me tomorrow?