men go to bed with Gilda

after the life & words of Rita Hayworth but wake up with me a rabbit with no hind legs, a girl with no hood: a skull shaped like a war head, or a waning moon, or a pistol. you know, the kind we women carry at our pretty little hips, you know, the gilded kind, the kind you could own, like they owned me. like they owned my false name, my Rita, my worth, like they could carve new light in my powderkeg skull, fostering a fatal wound in me, the fatal woman. but buddy, have I got news...

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