I Love to Hate My Gilmore Girls Obsession

I Love to Hate My Gilmore Girls Obsession

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.