That Battle Is Over

What is it to take care of yourself? What are we taking care of?
A million bedrooms with hands softly lulling our divine cocks and cunts
Without telling anyone, a million ships come alone out on the calmest seas
So are we loving ourselves now? Are we mothering ourselves?
Statistics and newspapers tell me I am unhappy and dying
That I need man and child to fulfill me, that I’m more likely to get breast
cancer
And it’s biology, it’s my own fault, it’s divine punishment of the unruly
It’s fearful out here on the calmest seas
We who grew up singing Merry Christmas! War is over
Our mothers softly humming: we’re at the end of history
But I keep growing older, eight years since 25 now
And all that ages now is the body, I wonder why
I think to myself one of these days
Everything I write begins with the question, what’s wrong with me?
You say I’m free now, that battle is over
And feminism is over and socialism’s over
Yeah, I say I can consume what I want now
This is what happens on the edge of history: the Great Eye turns to us
We are the only thing that’s aging, but we don’t know it yet
We cling onto Heaven, Heaven, Heaven
Sleep tight forever