From Queer Fat

If I were pudding my brown brain sauce would leak down my fat and that would be these things called thinking. I, I was given an essay on cute things. I read how we gesture to control them. Squish their fatty element. Violate them until they violate themselves. Until they bite back gently with hominy teeth. Until violet blood. The teething masses of giggling giga pudding eating giga pudding. Spooning their selves. Gigantic in my flesh I was the teething masses as I read. I was a cute pig person. I was large eyed and mouthless and fat as I ingested in the nom storm. I was a dead tongue making out with a dead tongue stilled at the moment of swallowing. I was seated upright until I fell into a sea of flab fornication. Cute flaps, I fell into their slimy velvet elements as if all of their material was hollow as Care Bear stigmata. I fell into the fluorescent pink of meat. Reading about cute things I fell over in a cute wood chair and hit my skull on the edge of the seat where I fit my squishy ass. Usually. I fell and I fit my squishy skull onto the hard lines of its architecture, the erect poetics of its space squidging me with its finger penis. It made a cute bump on my cute skull. Plop. Plop. It made me bleed cute things. It made little beads with little faces leak out of my holes. It made faces leak out my faces and grow faces. It made me form a pulsing bump made of fat. It made the abject giggle with the possibility of swift death. And I’d poke the possibility. And I’d poke the bump like it was a cat’s face. Poke. Poke. And I’d poke the cat’s face until I started crying in my feminist materialism class while we were talking about death pornography. And rainbows. I poked the cute face with mourning and fingers and television screens. I poked the face until I became excited about my own death, the cute movement of fat and the dumbness of my brain Jell-O. I poked the face because all I do is water plants and poke things and dance in an ecstatic, bourgeois death ritual like a wiggly gelatin salad filled with death thoughts. Surviving poorly, disgusting in my suspended element. I poked the face until I saddened my suicidal self slowly to sleep. I poked the face again in the morning in front of a tree near the library, and I cried like a dumb squishy poet because everything is engraved with death, predetermined by the cute animal shape of the Jell-O Jiggler. Unsatisfied. Rainbow colored. I poked the face like there is no good ending to this mostly unintended cuteness in our fists. Or the survival of rainbows. Or the brown material mixture thereof.