All is fucked. Let’s just fuck.
Everything went to shit because of a fucking dress.
That fucking dress.
Not mine. Marilyn’s.
The white one floating above the subway grate.
As if God himself couldn’t resist tearing at her skirt.
The one turning a woman into a collective fever dream.
Pure sex. Pure spectacle.
Pure fucking public property.
But that wasn’t cinema.
That was the exact moment her husband finished inside her.
Joe DiMaggio finished inside Marilyn Monroe.
Not in bed. Not in pleasure.
But right there on camera.
In jealousy. In rage.
In helplessness, he finished in her because she wasn’t his anymore.
Everyone remembers the image.
No one remembers that Joe DiMaggio beat the shit out of her after.
Because he couldn’t stand it.
That his woman became everyone’s.
That her body escaped his grip.
Slipped through his fingers into the lens.
Couldn’t bear that she belonged to every eye.
Every desire. Every hungry stare.
Couldn’t handle the fact that his wife became everyone’s whore.
Everyone’s goddess. Everyone’s myth. Because of a fucking dress.
He couldn’t handle a woman who didn’t ask for permission to be seen.
The thing about dresses—
It’s like a functional representation of patriarchy.
In our everyday life.
You need somebody else to help you put on or take off your dress.
Because of all the fucking buttons and fucking zippers.
The system tells us we cannot be independent and that we need a man.
It wasn’t just a dress.
It was a kind of visibility you couldn’t take back.
Everything started to fall apart the moment I realized Joe was trans—
too—and that for three years
more off than on they kept it hidden from me.
As if my transness was a show.
Something to be silently observed.
Not shared.
As if I was the one performing gender and they were just the audience.
I—transfeminine,
non-binary—was the one in the dress.
And they stood beside me, quiet.
Polished. Masculine.
In the closet.
That fucking dress that was supposed to mean freedom
became the end of everything.
Two bodies side by side, mutually unbearable.
It felt like betrayal—not because they were trans,
but because they were silent.
As if my body was a stage.
As if my dress was just a costume.
As if my love didn’t deserve an answer.
Sometimes I wish someone would hold the dress down for me.
But more often I want to lift it even higher.
Show the dick. Show the cunt.
Show the truth. The history.
Because this isn’t a scene.
This is fucking life. I’m cancelled.
Yeah, you can cancel me.
I can be cancelled.
I am cancelled—and I will always be cancelled somehow.