How fortunate am I, how unfortunate am I, that again I bathe under the sun. I derive no pleasures from my womanly pain, grief felt deepest, the steel boot on my hand. The ending sun continues boiling the pavement; It chews me up, rarely swallows.
No one makes me feel crazier than other women. No one spits on my fallen trough more than men. Constantly rejected by those who object me, those who ogle, those who take screenshots of my body like passing thoughts through their minds. The outsider .
I’m on flight F9396 and the sun burnt my hand raw.
