Pussy

A loose eyelash embedded in milky bodily fluids.
Red spiderwebbed and irritated around the pupil, which is permanently pinned.
Or blue and unwell,
teardrops have started to erode the skin on my face,
forming smooth lines, which your fingertips study:
Some call it the path of least resistance.
Others call it being lazy.
Some call it perspective.
Others call it sensitivity.
Someone called me a pussy.
And, yeah, they're right,
Because I am a pussy
Going nowhere.

Smoking cigarettes on Carrie's porch after work at 11pm on a Monday night, we see a guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton. He took his white t-shirt off, and started to twirl it above his head, like a sports fan in the stands with a towel, as he screamed at the passing headlights: "I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO FRIENDS. NO GIRL. NO JOB. I'M COMPLETELY FUCKIN BROKE. I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO CAR. NO BEER. NO FOOD. CAN'T EVEN AFFORD A FUCKIN BIG MAC. N-O-T-H-I-N. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR ALL Y'ALL IN THE CARS. NOTHIN."

The shirtless guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton crossed the street, almost being hit by two cars in the process, then disappeared behind two houses, presumably into The Terrace.

Someone on the porch says, "Shit, that dude is going to probably get shot. Too bad I couldn't understand what he was sayin, I don't speak nigger. Hahahaha."

I remain silent; others laugh.

For the remainder of the cigarette, I imagined shirtless guy who was on the corner of South Welles and Northampton coming back and strangling all of our privileged, middle class throats, one by one, with his t-shirt.

"NOTHIN. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR Y'ALL."

It's what we deserve for never doing anything important for anyone else. It's what we deserve for never helping out. It's what we deserve for never speaking up against someone, especially when that someone is a fucking racist asshole. It's what we get for always trying to keep the status quo, instead of fighting for what feels inherently good.

The path of least resistance.

"Pussy."