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Perhaps this will be a pleasure of the future, a male desire that goes unspoken. A desire that is only a desire, and not a command.
They get very drunk on the beer that their cockroach bodies love, and walk home under the stars, and when they see a man they hiss and the man runs away and they laugh and laugh. “Can’t you take a joke?” they shriek, and they almost feel bad, because two wrongs don’t make a right. But one wrong after wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong does make a cockroach woman feel better, reckless, free.
Why, of everything we think, should our wishes be unspoken?
I thank her for the lesson, well-learned, that if the world will give money to a dead boy and not a live girl, then I will stay a daughter inside a son, a sister inside a brother, the man my sheath, the woman my blade.
Patrick has green eyes and shoulders thin as wishbones. I imagine grabbing him, pushing back on his shoulders until he snaps at the sternum, opening him to the wind.
Why be a girl with an average face when I can be a wolfman? A creature from the black lagoon? I eat a chip.
Your Norwegian foremothers did not have fancy chalk liners. They laid tile using their eyes and their keen spatial reasoning. They sailed boats using the stars. Their forearms never tired when kneading dough or giving hand jobs. When their husbands fucked orthodontists, they killed them.
Here is the secret that everyone knows: we are easy to frighten. We have seen the videos about stranger danger, friend danger, and boyfriend danger. Husband danger and father danger. But we are proud.
