This girl falls on
So I'll admit, I couldn't stop looking. I sat there, genderless, motionless, staring. What could she do but go on, holding her hands over her hearts. Walking in strange paths at different speed intervals. She who painted her nails then bit them for the taste and masturbated on her stomach. She was capturing my eyes, pulling them out of damp sockets and trailing them behind her through the crowd, so that I could watch her walk away even after she'd left, crossed the street and descended. Only minutes earlier had I seen her come close to tears while adjusting her stockings, but her still somehow her had gotten wet. She had the permanent black fog around her eyes that develops from years of wearing dark eyeliner. The kind that builds up and never seems to lessen even with nightly scrubbing. Girls who live by dark eyeliner always give themselves away. Imitations are easily spotted by the clean edges and undulled skin. As I fell behind I just kept thinking of her small breasts, big hips, small hands, big feet. So I sat, waiting for my boyfriend, unable to remember my gender and sexual orientation, praying that they would return to me. I tried not think about her and how she only reads romance comics or inexplicably thick books, I tried not to think about what she would have looked like as a little girl, running to her mother. I tried to analyze my pickiness for grocery stores and my inability to cum while kneeling. Despite all my thinking I couldn't explain this intersexual envy of an overly imperfect girl who was falling and being dragged. I couldn't explain this hatred, because after all isn't all envy only a glorified version of hatred?