To the Conversation I Dekalb Ave,

BY ELLA FERRERO

Taken from the Rib

Of a poor man’s Adam I am Pratt Pussy. I am laughing at Pratt Pussy. There is nothing wrong with women I just Want to avenge that original sin/sickness/my own sexual desire (Women are the disease of Pureness, we must remind them of this Unholy unholy). She bit

The apple first I only watched (observed, bit

The part not touched by the flesh, hit the core). The snake Looked at me with human eyes he laughed, this Is the woman you love. This is your mother/sister/daughter/love/sex. I cannot help it (I cannot help myself) around these girls they Are apples I bite into them, I whistle at them, Ciao baby, I beg for their names on the subway, I Am following her home, I am Grabbing the green ones. I leave when I Hit the core. It is too bitter, the seeds may Kill me. I do not know what woman means, I can only Point at what they give me. Pieces of fruit, their ripeness Does not matter. They are bags Of organs and I am hungry and plucking. I call them by their Stickers. Fuji, Pink Lady, Pussy.

I bit my ears when I heard this Pratt Pussy. I am a girl touched by older Men, ignored by dad, whistled at, my body dissected In boys’ group chats. You say you are a feminist. I Say that you laughed along. You let your boy Reduce me to body parts. You let your boy

Define what a woman is, when I am not sure. I know that she is not Pussy. I know that men are gifted Bodies in their own heads to Fulfill the things they cannot tell mom About. I know that my body is a language That you cannot speak, only Point at the rhythm And laugh at the accent.

Art By Tha S Curvelo

IG: @THHHACURVELO