i know you want to kill hitler, and we’re gonna do that! but it’s my time machine. so first, we go back to ‘96 and see space jam in theaters.
i imagine that Beyoncé is off somewhere on a yacht, sipping on an olivia pope sized glass of wine, watching the entire world explode over her new album dropping out of literally the thinnest of air and cackling to herself with sheer joy. like, not only did she give you 14 new songs, but she gave you a music video for every damn one. this wasn’t just a casual troll, this was a calculated strike of nuclear proportions and she is leaving no survivors.
Who taught me to suck in my stomach,
or my cheeks?
Who told me to stand with my legs apart
and my hips thrust back
to create the illusion of a gap
between my thighs?
Who made me believe that the most beautiful part of me
is my negative space?
who am I shaving my legs for