I Can’t Kiss My Own Neck

First, you think we all think the same. Then you realise your thoughts are similar to those of your parents and friends and the people at school who hold sway for no real reason, maybe after school sessions mean something different for them. You did your maths’ homework at Mark’s house, got the last bus at six fifty six, watched Big Brother before bed.

Parents will say, “Carve your own way,” and, “Decisions are yours,” but someone else’s hands have a stake in your brain and, often, it feels like latex-ed fingers are inside cavities created by surgeons, somewhat delicately, but not enough.

The advice you give floors others because hope is for dreams and upbringings. You say, “Die, if you want to,” and, “It hurts,” and you leave doors open when you shouldn’t. You challenge the regressive nature of the women around you who want to recoil into their own wombs, live with the fetuses they grow but shouldn’t. You have a steady hold on guns, in a totally non-euphemistic way, and why should you change your life’s direction for dish washing, peeling carrots.

Whoever said women make stability, girls create homes, never met me.

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