working woman’s blues
I am not greater than the sum of my parts.
I spend my days as a pair of busy hands, a calm and insistent voice, and a constantly spinning brain. Depersonalized, instrumentalized. Emptied.
I have high utility.
At night, I fill my emptiness.
Stuffed, distended and leaking sadness from the edges, but still insatiable.
I am an empty hole.
I have sexual market value.
I am not greater than the sum of my parts.