today i am Lily-Rose Depp. not Lily-Rose Depp like my father is Johnny Depp nepo baby Lily-Rose Depp or bonjour i wear only chanel no5 l'eau and have a sexy french accent Lily-Rose Depp. i am the Timothee Chalamet is a really shitty kisser Lily-Rose Depp.
as Lily-Rose Depp i bagged the second-hottest (?) man in the freshman class. cream of the crop. (the cream is the icing and the crop is a teenage cesspool and the people licking the cream from ab to ab, nipple to nipple are bisexual women confused by what they want.)
as Lily-Rose Depp i am sitting in a yacht (a dingy basement) waiting for my new boyfriend (a boy i met 20 minutes ago) to kiss me. he’s talking about plato or aristotle or some other intellectualized bullshit and i’m leaning sideways against the couch for maximum cleavage:doe-eye ratio. kiss me, i have big boobs. this is not my first rodeo. nor is it his.
and somewhere between the 1st and 3rd ick and 2nd and 4th smolder
he shoves his tongue down my throat—
and suddenly i am not floating somewhere along the italian riviera anymore.
and now it’s oh, lily.
like oh, lily.
oh, it’s getting sticky lily and—
look! lily. you know how it goes lily. am i (are we) just like you now, lily?
stalemate.
Author's Note:
an exploration of desire, sexual identity, bad hookups, and what we think we want.
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