i always had a silver spoon poised.
gender like the crust of creme brûlée, undisturbed and perfect, picture in a cookbook where the chef used a blowtorch, (like what the fuck kind of rich prick buys a blowtorch just to melt sugar on cake), the surface smooth and hard, but… i read a chapter in a book and it makes me question it makes my hand dart hard and crack the polished top, with an audible snap. and i feel the crust disintegrate, what i took as certain slide out from underneath me. my pronouns once so solid, but the ground beneath me is just a thin mantle around an ever shifting core like what if this womanhood is tectonic, what if my geography is simply in its current era? what if this, my salt of the earth is just the sugar of a brulee scab. what is the purpose of a tiny binary, a construct that dictates if i consume or am consumed; like the universe doesn’t have bigger star signs to fry like there aren’t binary fucking stars that orbit each other until they implode maybe that’s the parable maybe that’s the message it’s trying to tell us that gender’s playing chicken with itself and right now i don’t eat meat. yet i sit here with my spoon and my dessert and my useless shroud of gender and i think it fits today so that’s all that matters.