The Game

How do I get these damn boys off my back?

They call us girls?

Call attention to my immaturity?

You know what matures you?

Curiosity, novelty, challenge.

You know what these boys pretending to be men lack?

Curiosity in a world inevitably spinning,

novelty in a world made for their hands,

challenge in a world shaped by their fear.

Yeah, pretty face, we all have our shit —

but do you know how many bodies you’re crushing

when you cruise on your motorized fucking skateboard?

Do you realize how pretentious you sound

when you brag about beating everyone at Mario Kart,

about your Supreme bag being a garbage can?

Games aside, life is not a game, not matter how long

your gender has imposed limitations on the rest

all I ask you is that you get off my damn back,

so I can defend those I love, maintain my compassion,

and lend you a hand

once you decide to get off your high, power-hungry horse.

 

To all the people out there who try hard to be patient with and have empathy for that rich white cis dude but know it’s harder than it looks…I’m with you.

 

November 24, 2019

Whole, Broken

I am a human —

I am not just a woman,

I am not just a moment,

I am not just a gift.

I am alive —

my emotions ebb and flow

just like yours, sad man.

The sad man, taking space

for the story;

the sad man, sharing tales

about his glory

forgetting the time he said

“together,”

stomping out the past

as if he’s doing me a favor.

I am whole,

and now I am also broken,

just for you—

another sad man

so unequivocally,

unapologetically,

unsurprisingly

alone,

that I question why I’ve carried

around this hope at all.

 

I saw Slave Play last night and credit it for the “sad man” reference above. What an important play…and an important line.

 

October 18th, 2019

To Men Who Take But Don’t Give

You’ve taught me:

it’s hard

to love yourself

when you give yourself up

like meat for slaughter

when you’re taught

you are not an animal,

you are the meat;

you are a hole to be filled

and wiped clean afterwards;

you are the microphone

through which he speaks.

 

Even before I fuck you

I’ll remember my name,

part of the heavens you’ve never seen,

let alone touched.

 

Leave me alone to write, without you.

 

Your gaze makes me too tired to speak.

 

This is my time to breathe,

not your time to sink me down with you.

You’re 4 months into America

and you think you can laugh at our president?

Tell me what street to take?

 

Sex led me to you?

 

Is that what we did?

No.

 

You cannot touch

what you cannot see–

your heart is nowhere on this table,

on this bed. Your ego lifts you

(to make up for your small dick).

 

Am I right?

Do you believe in “right”?

Me neither.

But I do believe in justice.

 

What do you believe in?

 

December 6, 2018