Purveyor Of Potatoes

the thing about freud is that he believed women were mysteries, & the thing about men is that they love a mystery until they realise there’s no solution, just a girl curled like an animal at the bottom of an empty bathtub, choking on an idea she can’t unthink.

i’m skipping pages, biting my fingernails down to the lunula, wondering what it means to be hysterical, if it is simply to be a woman with a voice so loud it bursts through the walls of reason, a scream ricocheting through the corridors of history, echoing against the skulls of men who never understood what it was like to be born into a war they never started.

(he says: tell me what’s wrong. i say: i’m just tired. he says: you’re always tired. i say: yes. i mean: i haven’t slept in years.)

the thing about freud is that he believed suffering is pleasure inverted, & the thing about suffering is that it’s an inheritance, a currency, a country you don’t get to leave just because you learned the words for leaving.