my poem
In Hour of The Star, Macabéa loses her virginity when she dies.
She submits to her objecthood by leaving her body, she lets everybody else enter.
She couldn’t afford to be sad because sadness is for rich people.
She was a typist, she loved Coca-Cola and advertisements.
She prayed to her consumables every night.
She ate hotdogs every day.
In dreams, my rapist is a desired commodity.
My labor is: asking for him every night like I never got to do.
In Hour of The Star, Rodrigo is the god-like, Murakamian narrator.
Rodrigo thinks Macabéa is ugly, and her ugliness makes her unfuckable.
Her unfuckability makes her less human, she loses value as a consumable.
God-like misogyny is actually really pedophilic and necrophilic.
The young girl does not age, she decomposes.
So either you like young girls or decomposing ones.
My rapist loves young girls, he would survive every era of mankind.
My rapist would love to behead people like Game of Thrones.
I would love to behead people like Game of Thrones.
That used to be my biggest fear, but so was having a rapist.
Everyone owns something: a rapist, a horse, a career, a dream.
In the Barbie movie, Barbie can’t actually have her cycle because she is 90 pounds.
Her head would fall off because her neck is too narrow.
I bet my rapist loved the Barbie movie.
In my dream last night, my rapist and I were in love and no one knew.
I almost forgot that he hurt me.
My friends and I like to talk about the spectacle prison.
We say to be a woman is to be decapitated like in Game of Thrones.
Part of you belongs to the basket of the state.
The rest of you belongs to the earth or fire.
You never see what they do with the bodies after.
To have a rapist means that you can own a rapist.
That rapist performed labor to produce rape.
Having a rapist is like having an outside cat.
They can exist outside of your house.
They run around and have their own reputations and babies.
But they always come home at night, and you have to leave room for them at the end of the bed.