There is No Chocolate Ice Cream in Stars Hollow or On Getting Help for My Obsession with Gilmore
I think of Lorelai’s love / of food and coffee and how whte privilege is always finished bowl and feasting/ consuming even the carton/never belly-room enough for consequences/ I love all the ways I’m forced to bask in wht bodies embracing/expected to cream from 2-ply paper lips pressing together/ a nest of hair knotting like dingy shoelaces/how she never thinks of her fifty flavor choices--a multitude of men pining for her seen and centered ass/ when you’re a straight whte woman, the love triangle is your sweet inheritance/hand-spun in caucasian confection/ everyone wants to dip their tongue into her/ pop rox their taste buds on anglo fizz ecstasy/ a fro-yo of vanilla brain freeze/ while us queer Black women sit patient for our four lines, 50 dollars, and a Sag credit/ waiting for sexual tension to build between her and diner boy/ meanwhile, I would have fcked him and her and fled/cause I never know what’s good for me and even when I do, I leave/was never taught how to stay frozen/cone-gripped and candy-hearted/ but you, you learned/bcuz u are everywhere/ snow white showed you a woman is only desirable when she is immovable and waiting/ to be carved into. while us brown girls never stick around long enough for you to lick the edges /we know we’ll melt if we stay still.
For God So Loved the WAP
Broken Sestina for Cardi B’s WAP ft. Megan Thee Stallion
And what is a woman but a cavernous pussy collapsing after men made her a dam? Rushing water above fractured oak, afraid to land over the cliff and drop down finger-first. scared the quake will leave us splintered. What does it mean to push past the splintering to reclaim the running water of pussy? To say amen to the faucet spilling coins— all the pennies you saved to toss and forget. Now, she has reached a reservoir of fingers gliding out and in. What is a woman unafraid? She is a brook, a stream, a whole damn ocean. And what becomes of the splintered wood? She builds a home in the depth of the stroke— unafraid a home in the mess of her gushing geyser. And what is a pussy but a boiling spring? Hot eruption of minerals and salt-brine, spouting off heat to melt the coldest coin. Damn What is a woman but a stream of fingers waiting to run off. To spill sediment salt from fuck boys, who thought of us a damn store-bought container, fish tank pussy to hold his school of splintering trout. When we say go deeper, we mean to dive unafraid to the bottom an open mouth bass, to swallow the salty seaweed. To run rough tongues over our bleeding pussy stones. To drink and be full. Now, unsplintering full-bellied and gaping, our floodwater fingers rush alive and unafraid. Watch the dam she will build from its splinters. The grit and stone she will cleanse with salt. Watch her wet and waiting, for pussy pleasured oak. Spark a live-fire— swear this fountain wasn’t home. Swear the water. Swear it fire. Swear it home.
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