v u l v a l i c i o u s
The Gentrification of a Perfectly Good Cunt
Sometimes I'm so frustrated I want to spit. I dream of the insides of exes, their sighs and the fit of their hands. I want to spill out your brain onto the floor. I want to stop feeling so much shame when we talk about the price of bread, eggs, cereal.
I know you have more, but you haven't accepted it yet. Downward mobility is comfortable, the worn-in thrift store jacket I see on the backs of every fucking hipster queer that walks down the street. We're moving in, gentrifying, taking over the streets where neighbors used to watch out for one another's children, make sure they got home safe from school. We're biking down their streets, drinking coffee roasted in-house and whining about the lack of a good thai place in the neighborhood.
Meanwhile you don't want to talk about the fact that I spent what wasn't there. "Money isn't hard," you say, as though it's the most obvious thing. "You're just making it that way." I want to throw you out the window. I want to let you see what money is to me--this sickness that creeps into happy parts of my life and stops me short--but you're always closing your eyes. Screaming wouldn't help, so I cry a lot.
All I really want to say is "fuck you."