It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind ****-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of **** holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, *******, strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing *****- tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to **** your **** even though you will not go anywhere near her ****.  You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: *******.

never walk alone at night
never wear your skirt too tight
always shave your ***** hair
head down now, avoid their stare
don't touch yourself, that's just for him
oh but not for her, that's a sin
don't get drunk, you'll be blamed
for actions that you cannot tame
watch your mouth, imperatives are banned
for you're labeled bossy if you command
stand up straight, never slouch
keep your legs shut on the couch
eat too much and you're far too fat
eat too little, you're worth less than that
insecure, oh, what for?
confident? then you're a *****
naked face, spots and all
you might as well hide behind a wall
painted and pretty, just what they want
unnatural and fake, the endless taunt
so how do you win when it's lose lose lose
"boys will be boys"
try standing in our shoes.

When I was young I promised myself that when I grew up and got hot,
If I ever got cat-called, I would react.
I would scream,
Kick the bumper of their car,
Throw my overpriced drink in their face,
Be angry be ******,
Take no **** from anyone who dared to look at me.

I grew up.
I'm not hot,
I'm okay enough to look at,
Okay enough to earn the attention of two middle aged children in a ****** silver four door car.
I promised myself
I would react.

I froze.
Took another faulty step
Felt my ankle struggle under the weight
The ends of my pants brushing my toes
Blood rising to my face.
Not a blush.
I was not flattered.
An inferno.
My mind in flames.
The heat trapped by my mouth
Glued shut by $20 lipstick from a brand owned by someone who hates what I am.

Didn't I promise myself?
I didn't react.
Hardly moved a muscle.
Too slow to even furrow my manicured eyebrows in rage.

I know now
That the world will always be cruel.
And the world will always think I'm
Hot
Beautiful
****
Cute
Attractive

So what good is having my own pretty face
When everyone else thinks that it's theirs?
Nobody will ever own me
Not even myself.

Pretty girls get what they want
That’s the background radiation you grow up with
Princesses in every color (dress) waltz across your screen
Pretty curled pigtails and pink ribbons get you more
Than comfortable jeans and the Saints jersey your uncle bought you
“What a pretty girl!” your nana coos, reaching into her purse
Pretty is important, you decide.
So you ask your mom if she can curl your hair for school tomorrow, pretty please?

You’d be pretty if you smiled more
It’s leered at you at the bus terminal
After a long day of work, or school
But you take it to heart anyway
Smiling your way through life
Becoming a magazine cut-out of a girl
With a flawless smile glued on, even when you're tired
Or sad
Especially when you're angry
You decided pretty is important
More important than feelings, than yourself
So you ask your face to stretch a little wider for you, it doesn’t hurt too bad, right?

She was asking for it
He grumbles on the stand
His voice was rough against your paper thin skin and your magazine ready smile
He's right, you realize, as the jury starts to nod
Must have been asking for it, they think, you think
As they wash away his guilt, wash away what he did
Hes squeaky clean now, but you still feel rotten
Your insides decaying as your perfectly composed shell starts to crack.
She must have been asking for it, everyone thinks
Don't pretty girls get what they want?

I am a girl, I must be weak,
I must know that men are stronger,
I need reassurance that I should be pretty,
All because I am a daughter.

I am a girl, I must love pink,
I must wear a skirt and a dress,
But not too short or I ‘must’ be a ****,
But of course, a ***** would never impress.

I am a girl, I must be 'asking for it’,
I mustn’t object when I am cat called on the street,
Because 'I have a nice ***’ and 'every man has free speech’
And I must want attention regarding the heels on my feet.

I am a girl and I should be paid less than a man,
I mustn’t be able to do the right amount of work,
I am supposed to have a clean job, such as a nurse,
A baker, or a hotel desk clerk.

I am a girl and this is what I was brought up to believe,
I was taught to be anchored,
To never cross the line between the sexes,
To never deceed the standard.

I am a girl and I am strong,
I will not be stereotyped by a colour,
I will never be your 'eye candy’,
Do not underestimate my gender.

When the Lord split the adam
It wasn't a clean cut.
A heftier half received the whole,
The other a supplicant for scraps at the
Table's Wayside.
(only if it didn't want those stinky leftovers
anyway)

Eons since, not much's changed
The portlier portion still retains
Rights to nuke the other slice
When enmity sticks its foot in the
Meaty muck of the mind

"But it's not my fault," it says,
Still blaming that little snake it likes to hold
Like a teddy bear on a forlorn night

What God hath torn,
Let mankind reassemble.

Do not call me by your nicknames
I can see the poison dripping off your tongue
Do not touch me without consent
This body is mine and mine alone
Do not tell me to stay quiet
My words could spark a revolution
Do not try to control me
My power is unbridled and vicious
Do not mistake me for weak
I am a force to be reckoned with

Leaf spines do their damnedest
to hold onto broken branches.

"These people -- if you could
                      call them that,"
the old man's shoulders pinch
his bubbling neck, "*******,
******* -- these opinionated
women; my god, I have never
seen the like, no sir."

Mother, why have you left me.
I can smell you on the freshly
                           salted roads.
It is so cold here. The snow
may never stop. The wind
has been picking up. I'm
afraid it may ******* away,
somewhere your direction.

"You see, the thing is, this
country -- no, this world --
has changed so **** much.
It's struck me, fearsome, of
what may stay; what may come,"
he runs his thick fingers through
a rather handsome silver patch,
"I wonder if what I mean to say
is that people scare me?
I don't know what that says
about me or about people."

Father, you sit and you drink,
dying in your work boots;
dying in the arms of my dream;
becoming a man slowly razed.
Your eyes are pale hazel
and they grow apart, as your
tongue pushes out, gone for
a few hours; soon missing.

"Mmm. No sir, I suppose this
world ain't for me. Virginia is
hardly the place I once knew...
You know, my wife, she found
the good in everything -- swear.
Found the good in me.
I envied her, in that one way;
she'd see the good in the *******,
*******, and these women who
just, well, don't know their place.
She'd know. But she ain't here.
Hell, I'm hardly here, tell'ya."

And all my anger I harbor for you,
my mother, I give to the women
I sleep with; the women that
break my heart; the women who
love me forever.

And all my anger I harbor for you,
my father, I try to forget, for you
are my idea of God's love, and
I desperately scratch at your surface,
excusing your roughness injuring my
fingers; forgiving you for covering me
in your blood and everything else you.