You ever run into someone on town and instantly get a feeling that they hate you? It happened again.
I’m not sure, of course, we locked eyes only for a brief moment; I, standing at the checkout, balancing a bag of Cheetos on my arm and my wallet nailed between my chin and shoulder, desperately trying to insert my Visa card in the reader while answering the phone,
and you, a few inches away, your eyes glistening with disgust,
drifting over my frayed jeans clasping delightfully over my ass, my Dimmu Borgir t-shirt and the black eyeliner smeared out a tad around my left eye.
The mere sight of me has awoken a rage within you,
a fatal combination of sexual frustration and a mere lust for power
You reach forward, making sure to let your arm stroke along my back although there’s plenty of space around us, pressing just a little at the tailbone,
that you own me.
Walking home from a party that night, sobbing silently into my phone speaker.
Did something happen, you ask.
No, I say. I’m just menstruating. How else to explain this feeling of insufficiency? Should have drunk less. Should have acted more intellectual. Wow. Should certainly not have laughed at that dick joke. They must all think me so shallow.
Now what did I do? I run it trough in my head. Did I degrade the entire female population again?
Sometimes the road home just isn’t long enough.
I’m trying to make the best of it,
but the truth is,
I hate being in this body
that bleeds, bulges, produces hormones at an excessive rate
I hate not being strong enough to push you away when you grab me
I hate that you make me hate myself
I buy clothes I feel sexy in, then decide not to wear them
The pile of shame is growing in my closet
I spend nights silently apologizing in my mind
Sorry for being weak
Sorry for being disgusting (And, simultaneously, so outrageously irresistible that men can’t help but follow me in the street.)
I had a dream about killing you.
About kicking you down from your stupid bike,
pushing you to the ground,
and drive my plateu heels into your temples again and again,
until you were nothing but a wet, manly stain on the pavement
I laugh in my solitude
at the thought of tearing you apart
everything seems funny until
you point to the cleft between my legs and say it’s improper
I say I have needs
of being seen, being appreciated,
maybe improperly penetrated,
I’m not a virgin
I like sex
I like to feel attractive
even in my solitude
But nothing’s private, nothing’s solely mine
my reproductive organs, my sexuality, not even my personality
it’s all just mud for the dogs to wallow in
Just what did I do to become so wretched?
Let me show you! I scream into the hands trying to hush me
I can be tough!
I can be secretive and hard-to-get and intellectual if that’s what you want! Just give me a bloody chance!
This is when
you say that I fail to control my emotions
antagonizing my own efforts to bring legitimacy to myself
I’d like to say you don’t know what you’re talking about
So what if I’m a bit in love with you?
So what if I dream of you sometimes
And so what if I touched myself to the thought of you –
Well, not you. Never you.
Just you, thinking that I’m
Valid! I’m still valid! I’m not stupid.
I know when to play silly,
when to giggle,
when to lift my skirt and exclaim: “Ooh! How unfortunate!”
When to moan and pretend I’m having an orgasm,
just so that you won’t feel bad about yourself.
I’ve been raised to satisfy, whether it be by
smiling, agreeing, or just shutting up.
Does the thought of me offering you all of this make me
less worthy in your eyes?
In that case,
maybe I’ll just hate
The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.