FEMCEL 9/11

♡ never forget ♡

Martyr is what I call myself

I was born to suffer.

I put myself in situations

Just to see if I can get out of them.

I am an outraged aging coquette

Desperately arranging imaginary strands of hair.

I am an estradiol hermaphrodite

In a battle to the death with their mirror.

I am your dirty old uncle

Wearing your grandmothers clothes.

I am your cybernetic almond mom

Counting macros in your calorie app

Did you weigh yourself today?

I am my favorite work of art

In the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I am the girl with the pearl earring.

I am not a girl

This is not a pearl earring.

I am a femboy courtesan

Presiding over Jeffrey Epstein’s harem.

I never asked to live such a meaningful life.

Eurotrash tourists point and stare

I confront them with my gaze

Like a brazen hussy.

My fan is my weapon

More powerful than any taser

More potent than any mace.

I have made grown men blush

They hide their faces in shame.

I am an emotional terrorist

Love bombing twin tower erections

No one survives Femcel 9/11.

I am advocating for violence against every man

Who let you think he gave a damn

About you.

All the Lana del Reys

Will join forces

With the girls, gays, and theys

And avenge their outraged vaginas.

I did blood magic as a teen

But only just for fun.

I am now cursed to roam perpetually

The memories of a Sophia Coppola high school

Built on condemned land.

I was homeschooled

I’m still learning the rules

Everyone else seems to know already.

I need a based and redpilled bf

Who insists he is not gay

To fuck the blue haired nonbinary out of me.

I’ll stay On My Computer instead.

I’m a Balthazar gal

But I can’t afford it

I am in a delusionship

With the latest boy

Who gave me

The slightest bit of attention.

We were cosplaying aristocrats

I order pâté

You leave food on your plate

Forbidden jokes

We’re going to hell

Your tiny hand is frozen.

We were a strand of broken pearls

I try to restring us in the dark

It never looks the same.

Womanhood

If you were, I would

She stands above me laughing.

How violent it is to be a girl.

I wish I could give you what you want

I want to have your babies

Let me have my sweet delusion.

I offer myself on your outraged altar

I am an unasked for sacrifice.

Your sacred sheets

My filthy soul

Jealous of her pregnant blood

I want to stain you.

Autistic men have told me

While throwing Yung Hegelian cigarettes

At New School students’ feet:

“We need a dialectical hyper-poiesis

An anti-fascist algorithm

That does not reify the current power imbalance

But dismantles capitalism and cishetnormativity…”

And no one will ever be lonely again.

Regardless, I will continue to write poems

About how no one wants to fuck me.

Men will continue to write poems

About how they want to fuck everyone.

Women will continue to write poems

About how everyone wants to fuck them.

We all cry when we’re alone

So what’s the difference?

I am in the act of becoming.

I am becoming something new.

I’m not quite sure yet what that is,

But it will be beautiful.

Put quite plainly:

I make all my friends

Fall in love with me.