…
“To you I am neither man nor woman. I come before you as an author only. It is the sole standard by which you have the right to judge me – the sole ground on which i accept your judgment.”
-Charlotte Bronte
If it happened to you.
If it happened to you
you’d hate men too
any man that crossed your path
you’d cower or sink away
or you’d get angry
wonder how any man
could do that to you
could hurt you like that
because if you’re kissing your boyfriend
and he takes it too far
you shout no, push him away
but you led him on
it was your fault for kissing him
or if you’re walking down the street
in a tank top and skirt
after a night with the girls
and someone drags you into an alley
you led him on
by dressing suggestively
and you hate men
wonder how any man
could do that to you
could hurt you like that
and then you move on
and your hate is only for him
everything about him
his creepy smile
his stupid name
(if you even know it)
and his smell
every time I smell that cologne
I get a little sick to my stomach
my chest tightens
and I know it’s not him
but that smell still sickens me
if I knew the name
I would burn down the factory
that makes it and
erase his smell from the world
and I don’t give a shit
if this is moral or politically correct
I hope he dies
I want him to die
because he killed a part of me
he slashed three marks in my soul
like in Africa
three slashes on your left leg
to show the world you are a victim
three slashes as a physical reminder
just incase that image
burned in your memory
begins to fade
like the scars on her arms
that girl in the back of a car
she left with those two boys
she must have consented
she must be a whore
and now she carves consent
into her pale arms
and tries to bleed the hurt away
wondering how a boyfriend
best friend, husband, father, stranger
could hurt her like that
wanting to lock up her sister, mother, friends
to keep them away from
that pain, her pain
but she knows it won’t solve the problem
and I don’t care
if I’m about to generalize
or stereotype men here
but I hate them sometimes
when I’m thinking about
how any man could hurt
a woman
could hurt me, my friends,
my sister, my mother, my cousins,
women I haven’t even met
who think it’s not safe to
be out alone at night
take back the night
quit teaching your daughters,
sisters, friends to carry
a whistle and a can of mace
and start teaching your sons, husbands,
fathers, brothers, friends
that I am a person too
so I don’t have to wonder
how any man could hurt
me like that
if it happened to you
you’d know what I mean
and I hope and pray
that you never know what I mean
Introductions of a sort…
When I was a little girl I was not content to sit around and play with dolls. Sure, I played with dolls. But I also played with dirt. I played baseball, kickball, soccer, basketball and any other sport I could find. At school the girls only wanted to swing or play four square. But I longed to run down that soccer field, shins colliding with shins, being knocked to the ground and jumping right back up, kicking the ball with precision to a teammate standing near the goal. So I did. And as boys are prone to, they made fun of me. I was, after all, just a girl. I had boobs, and was therefore often asked if they could borrow some tissues, because at 10, my boobs couldn’t possibly be real. But they were. I was a girl. An early bloomer at that. I wasn’t like them. And they knew it.
I started hanging out with girls again. Talking about N’Sync and Backstreet Boys and which member of the band was cuter. While all my friends were developing crushes on the boys I used to play soccer with, I was not. Because I had a secret. One I didn’t even admit to myself. Back when I used to play with dolls, Barbies, my Barbie never married Ken and lived happily ever after. My Barbie fell in love with another Barbie. And so did I. But I was 13 and so confused with nobody to talk to. So I started dating a boy. He was a total jerk. He was mean to me and near the end of our relationship he assaulted me. After I dumped him I didn’t date anyone for nearly three years. My friends were finding high school love and I was developing crushes on other girls that I could never have. At 16 I dated another boy. A really sweet boy who held doors open for me and wrote notes telling me he loved me. I dumped him for the first girl I fell head over heels in love with. She broke my heart. Since then I’ve had a series of unrequited crushes and one mini-relationship with a girl who used to be one of my best friends.
And now, I am a writer above all else. It’s how I identify. I’m not a girl, not a lesbian, not a small town college student. A writer. I can’t imagine how sad my life would be without writing. At this moment I’m trying to focus on school and my writing, but a special girl may be creeping into my life. I’m not sure yet, but either way, I’ll probably write about it.
xoxo
Marginal Shakespeare
Marginal Shakespeare 