Lana Del Rey Helps Me Decide What My Pussy Tastes Like by MEGAN FALLEY

It can’t taste like Pepsi-Cola she says.
That’s what mine tastes like. And no one’s
pussy tastes like mine.

She’s sitting on my bathroom sink and painting
her toenails a flamingo shade. Think of something
American
 she tells me. Not like—hot dogs
or anything.
 She laughs and a diamond tooth
catches the sunlight. Cherry pie
is too obvious. Think fireworks, or money.
The national anthem. The American Flag.

I was a vegetarian waitress at a burger joint once.
People would ask which cow was my favorite—curious
about my brand of blood. I’m reminded of that now,
while Lana Del Rey tries to decide what my pussy tastes like
without ever having tried it.

It is a rite of passage for us girls—to name
our favorite daughters. To taste our cake
and christen it too. To find out what it answers
to when called for in the dark.

And I have to find out what it tastes like, because a man
on the corner of Flatbush Ave and Church
Street asks every time I pass him.

My pussy tastes like skinny dipping
in a glass of bourbon. It tastes like brass knuckles
and blush. It tastes like pop stars eating Poptarts.
Tastes like your mother’s does. Like a small
knife. It tastes like your favorite cock-
tail spiked with antifreeze. It tastes like you
can try it, you can love it, but it will
kill you.

It will kill you.

 

This powerful poem by Megan Falley talks about so many themes at once: heritage, feminism, what we should do and what we shouldn’t do, the catcalling, the American Dream, stupid people, vegetarianism – we absolutely love it. We love it so much that we want to make a dress out of this poem and wear it. And we love Lana del Rey in it too.

The poem was originally published in Pank Magazine.

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