“You know you can’t be walking around looking all cute like that, getting me all worked up like this.”

As it turns out, I can.

As it turns out, your being turned on is not an excuse to turn off your brain.

This honestly sounds like a personal problem.

This is something I don’t have to don’t want to and am not going to help you with

‘cause this is what I damn well look like.

I’m incredibly glad your eyes work.

Now please use them to be introspective,

to look at your damn self.

It’s almost cute that you think I’m cute but there will be no cookies for that.

for coercion, manipulation,

for subtle passes from platonic friends

there will be no nudes for fuck boys

The only thing naked here is your dignity.

Put some clothes on that shit.

Maybe if you cover up you will stop trying to uncover me.

Most days, I feel like I’m on display.

Everything is a museum and I am the always featured exhibit-

but then again, no

because in a museum

other people are around.

Someone is there to protect you,

to make sure others don’t get too close to the art,

can’t touch the art,

let alone wanna coercively fuck

the art.

Maybe,

I would rather be in a museum.

I would rather be archived,

freckles inspected,

flaws documented.

Maybe I would even have to be put behind glass.

I think I could almost get into that.

I’d rather have something between all of this and all of me.

It is so much to be this interactive exhibit,

this always going

while they’re always watching

this target on my back.

Do you know sometimes I feel so hunted I mean haunted I mean fucked up that I can’t even actually fuck?

Can’t love my lovers because all the trauma is there too

like sometimes right before I’m about to connect with someone I disconnect from myself.

I find the ghost of every invalidating moment that undressed me after I was already naked is in bed with us.

My mattress is just not that big but in situations like that I have to be,

Be big be strong be teacher

I have become a classroom.

I use lessons I’ve planned but hoped I never had to teach

about consent or respect or basic communication

and just like any classroom the students shit talk their teacher when she doesn’t give them exactly what they want.

Students talk over my lectures

Refuse to take notes or do homework or prep work or work at all.

So there will be no lessons on feminism today.

Well maybe just one- google it.

Perhaps you fell in love with the idea of me.

It was my hair, wasn’t it?

it accented your t-shirt at the time or your eye color, or your endless insecurities.

you forgot entirely that i am a person entirely-

not just a big smile, an aesthetic,

some kind of misplaced manic pixie dream girl let loose in the wild for you to discover and collect, oh Columbus

I should have known

you

as a proud garden,

the kind that makes the gardeners seem non-existent

which is to say you hide the hands that prune you while bragging about your blossoms.

Isn’t that toxic masculinity?

silencing the fems that birthed you, then raised you, then grew you.

& you grow

just like a wildflower now,

all over the damn place

taking up precisely as much space

as you feel like, just spreading and spreading

How does it feel to be everywhere,

uninvited?

Don’t answer that.

This isn’t about you. It’s about me.

I’m a canary,

you’re a coal mine and I am done singing for anyone but myself.

I’m an ocean but somehow you’re salty.

What’s the matter?

Am I too deep?

Were you looking for something more conquerable?

(I mean simple)

Try aisle 9.

or any aisle that gets you out of my face or my dm’s.

This is for everyone who has ever been made to feel like they are

too much

too big

too loud

too everything

Perhaps we are just right.

Perhaps you are Goldilocks and we don’t feel like making porridge today.

Perhaps you suck

the marrow then say the bones aren’t sweet enough

Ask for less thoughts, more brain

less mouth, more tongue

Perhaps you only want a shell of someone so you can forget you are but a whisper of yourself.

They start you off early

7th grade they say, ‘No shorts above your fingertips’
they say, ‘Tank tops: 2 finger width.’
They teach you
that your thighs and your shoulders are provocative spaces.
They teach you
it is your job to make sure others are not intrigued by them.

the mentality carries.
You overhear conversations about assault beginning with,
“Well, what were they wearing?”
like what goes on a body tells you how to treat one.
Last time I checked,
“no” sounds the same in any damn outfit
and so does silence.
I wish there was more emphasis on that.
Wish they didn’t tell us
to be mindful of our skirt length or of strangers
wish instead we could tell our little boys that what you learn in kindergarten applies to more than crayons
‘Don’t take what isn’t yours’
and ‘Keep your hands to yourself.’

I wish the weight of accountability
didn’t fall on our shoulders simply for showing them. or showing up in a body you perceive to be a womans.

don’t tell us how to dress because of this
and don’t call us names because of this.
Chaucer coined the word “sluttish” in the fourteenth century
to speak of untidy men.
We are much more than an arbitrary adjective

slutty, easy, female, hot
much more than any describing word you could think of.
We are nouns:
people, humans:
language matters and speaking of it,
we should reassess our rhetoric
why do we say “hit on”,
that doesn’t even sound kind.
Why do we say, “hollered at”
I have had enough boys in men costumes raise their voice at me when they could’ve been raising themselves.

A boy in my ethics class asked,
“Why can’t you just appreciate cat calls or being whistled at?”
because we aren’t cats or dogs,
so while I’m at it, please don’t call us bitches. only bad bitches are allowed to call me that.
I wish men would watch their mouths
half as carefully as they watch me walk down the street.

I wish we shelled out respect

the way we do judgment-
maybe then the word slutty wouldn’t have gotten twisted,
maybe then sexually active women and femmes wouldn’t be shamed
for the same acts dudes are high-fived for.
A horrible double standard that’s become horribly standard.
a different boy told me promiscuity isn’t the same for women and men-
said, ‘women are locks,’
said,’men are keys,’
said ‘you wouldn’t want a lock that’s been opened again and again would ya?’
It’s as if he was saying every time a person with my genitalia has sex we become less valuable
Say, doesn’t the lock still work no matter how many times it has been opened? or by whom?
Say, what’s the difference between one key opening the same lock over and over
and multiple keys opening that lock over a span of time?
what’s the real difference between one partner or several?
According to him it’s directly related to effort exerted,
said men have to try harder to get some, said you- you get whatever

you want-
I said “I want your respect”

but he was fresh out out of that.
Then he fought me about male privilege,
as he stood waist deep in his own

(not even realizing he was submerged)
He said, “well it is only a theory.”
I said yeah, so is heliocentrism:
the idea that we revolve around the sun.
So he said, sure male privilege exists but so does “hot girl privilege” at the bar.
Now it is a privilege to be ogled up and down,
to be offered drinks and beds and who knows what else
but my status as hot at the bar does not earn me a dollar each time he earns 77 cents.
My status as hot at the bar does not gain me unearned respect, or access to better jobs.
The thing that begets those things is being a cis man
and that’s privilege.

As a culture we make it so easy
to ignore the persistent patriarchy,
years after we were hunter-gatherers,
Hunter                                  Gatherers
were regarded as an actively egalitarian society-
though division of labor was split all contributions were equal

Influence was collective
Now in 2023 we grieve collective

inequality a sort of optical illusion,
one of those things you can see only if you know the trick behind it
A lot of people are lazy eyed
privileged and don’t want to own it.
The thing about an optical illusion is the picture is pretty enough
even if you can’t see the one that’s hidden inside it.
The mirage of equality is pretty
especially if you can’t see the inequality hidden inside of it.

I’m just urging all of us look closer
and see the inequality hidden inside of it.

Asked about the greatest fear they have with online dating,

cis-men most often answer that their partner might be fat.

Asked about the greatest fear we have with online dating,
trans people, non-binary folk, and cis-women most often answer that we might be murdered.

It appears that a cis-mans’ greatest fear is someone not living up to their expectations while our greatest fear is not living
at all.

I think about male privilege as an orchard where some types of trees spend a lifetime wondering when it will be cut down
and another spends their seconds by the river talking to their buddies
about how much they’ve grown and what is coming next season,

(Planning for the future is a privilege)
making sidebar convo
like, “Huh, did you notice that that patch of trees over there looks a little thinner? Hell whatever, ‘least it makes my view better”

the conditions for thriving here are perfect for some plants
but the soil is not fit others and the trees don’t have to think about that,
about taking up less space
or how their roots affect one another
because they were born here and like that and how is this their problem anyways?

If a tree falls in the forest it was never set up to grow in in the first place
do you think it makes a sound?
do you think the other trees even notice?

My guess is no.

Not if they never have to worry about their safety.
If they didn’t even realize they had it on.
Safety and privilege are two sacred pieces of clothing
you never purchase but when you own them, you wear them everyday.

I wear privilege and safety in my whiteness everyday
but in the moments that I feel safest I am surrounded by other fems or queers
or pretending to be.

Is it a coincidence that a safe is also a thing that locks everything important inside for only a few to see the value?

I don’t always make myself easy to see anymore but I am easy to notice.
When I am brave enough to go out, I wear my defense mechanisms like jewelry.
Men like to point them out, to try and take them off
to say things like, “You are not good at eye contact.”
to say things like, “What’s up with you?”

This poem answers those question.
This is what is up with me.
Eye contact indicates trust and
‘most people are self protective freezer chests and they do not want to thaw, are taught they are not allowed to thaw.

Most times masculinity is equated with staying frozen and cold and stoic.
Most times femininity is equated with staying open and warm and available
even when no one else is

So no,

I don’t always make myself easy to see anymore
but most days I’m just happy
that I haven’t been cut down yet.

When I raise a son, his first language will be no

his second will be I don’t know, and his third will be silence,
I will do so just to teach him how they are all synonyms,
how they might as well mean the same thing
because none of them mean consent.

I will teach him yes is the only word that ever means yes,
and that ‘smile’ is never a command.
I will teach him that fists do not have all of the answers
and that his tears aren’t something to fear,
that his feelings are actually entire universes worth exploring

(and if he doesn’t learn them early, they will become heavier and heavier until the weight of his emotional labor won’t ever be something he understands how to lift.)

When I raise a daughter, her first language will be herself,
she will speak autonomy so well it will be added to the list of romance languages
because it will be that damn beautiful when she speaks it.

I will teach her that no matter how that damn beautiful it is when she speaks it,

someone or many someone’s will still have the nerve to talk over her

but this never speaks to the worth of her words or of her.

I will teach her that her smile is not a party favor
and that she only has to share it when she feels so inclined.
I will teach her there is no such thing as Santa Claus or lady like,
that her body is hers even when the world makes her feel like it isn’t.

When I raise a human, I will raise them just like a human.
What separates a human from any other animal
is the ability to self-reflect
so I will make sure they know looking inward is more important
than looking anywhere else
but not to get lost there because what good is self-reflection that doesn’t go anywhere else?

I will teach them reflection is a cul-de-sac you must come back from.
I will teach them to never get so lost they can’t get found,
and to never be as cruel as this world is
but to always be as kind as this world can be.

I will teach them not to let the volume of water in their glass
be determined by the liquid in someone else’s pitcher.
I will add that if someone else has entrusted them with their refills,
that they must be as steady handed as possible.
I will remind them that no matter how well-intentioned,
they will never have hands that have the ability to do everything
their friends or lovers may need without having been told so they must do another human thing, and talk to one another.

I will tell them they are better than no one,
that they should only seek to be better than themselves yesterday.
I will teach them that our present society is built to help only those of us who claim to have developed it, to be mindful of the spaces they operate in and all of the things they have just by being born as them.

I will teach them that they are a walking poem.
They will always need editing regardless of whether or not they want it
and I will remind them that this does not make them less complete, but more.

To the voice in my brain that tells me no one will give a shit about my poetry:  

I am writing anyways.

This poem is yelling

a relentless echo around me

for a reason.

It knows hide and seek

isn’t always a game,

sometimes it’s a lifestyle.

It knows I might as well have been wearing camouflage for my formative years

but I am trying to live a different life these days,

one more rooted in honest.

If I don’t write this poem,

Am I being honest?

Am I being myself?

If I don’t write it,

My history will become gossip in my own head and I will be playing a game of telephone with myself.

If I don’t write it, the trauma will gladly write it

and all of my poems for me.

It will write them backwards, upside down, and untruthful.

The poems will be hard to follow.

I will be harder to follow

They will blame me for everything

and it is not that I am without blame but I am certainly not alone with it.

So instead I’m here,

up here,

thinking about every human I have been so far in this life

and the ones I am yet to be.

Kissing the clouds in my head instead of scolding them.

Writing everything down.

Saying some of it out loud.

& This is progress.

No matter how slow,

how incremental,

how not always enough,

This is progress.

When I was sixteen I swore off mirrors

at twenty five swore off self-loathing

In between I mostly swore under men

but I learned I can curse and promise and swear a storm of something’s

but it will not change the fact that there are a thousand ways to lie to yourself and the world around you if you want to convince it of something you aren’t.

No matter what your mouth says,

Your actions matter most.

Speaking is an action.

This is an action.

But it’s only part of the process.

Mental illness is like your shitty college roommate.

It kind of does whatever the fuck it wants whenever the fuck it wants.
It speaks as loudly as it wishes,
whenever it wishes.
It keeps going on and on well after your bed time
& after you asked it politely to stop.
It ate your cereal again.
(Oops.)

When was the last time it even cleaned up after itself?
and why has it been spending so much time in my room?
It demands respect from you before it has earned it and before you even understand it.
It asks inappropriate questions at inappropriate times like,
‘who are you anyways?’
And, ‘what do you even want to do with this life?’
It slept through its alarms again.
It forgot to pay rent again.
It keeps you awake at night,
and it invites itself to that party you were stoked to go to alone
reminding you everyday that you wouldn’t even be you without it.

At gas pumps

I always think I’m going to start a fire with static electricity
which is about as unlikely as me relaxing at the gas station.
When I’m there, I think about everything I have to lose.
Sometimes,
I do this in other spaces too.
I think so much about what might
    s l i p
I forget to appreciate it while it is right here in front of me.
The fastest way to stop appreciating the moment is to escape entirely from it.

I think so incessantly about the future I forget where I am right now.
I have become fantastic at this.
I’m like expert level 902 at this.
I could teach you, your sister and your aunt and that kid that never pays attention in the back of your class how to do this.
I tell myself I’m beating the time space continuum when I play escape artist
but I am not.

They say time travel isn’t real
but I assure you it is .
I have made weeks disappear
just wishing I was somewhere
or someone else.
They say teleportation isn’t a thing but
I
swear I’ve spent nearly three decades in two places at once.

What is it about the fantasy of somewhere else that seems so intoxicating?
Realistically, I only have this.
I only have now.
This moment and this stage
and this medium
and this body
and this.

So I’m trying to be here,
but be patient with me.
I might take some time

and I don’t even understand that shit.

Today

I walk this world with flagrant fragility
with grit, grace, & goodness.

Today I sit on the floor
and pretend it is comfortable to be sitting on the floor
when really it’s just grounding,
I mean really it feels like safety.

Today I stop trying to collide the word comfort into the same spaces
I squeeze the word safety into
(& pretend like I ever feel safe anywhere anyways)
Today I live like my chronically aching body feels like mine
or at least something in my control
like my car jack jumper cable joints quit jolting me awake at night
for once –
pretend that this frame is the way I would’ve pictured it
and then accept that it just isn’t.

Today I accept that when my body tells me how to handle it I am forced to listen.
Today I almost forgot to accept that when I tell my body what to do I am just as colonizer.
Today I wish both me and my body realized none of this is how consent works-
to go and claim Columbus
to find what’s already been found
and then haunt it
to possess a house with no for sale sign.

Am I talking about me or the patriarchy and is there a difference?
Today’s I am in foreclosure, maybe.
I try not to place fault but I do default
back to old habits some days
like Today I believed I had to pay my weight in woman to someone,
made peace with all of that for my damn self and then couldn’t even follow through because my body hurt too much to touch them
so today touch was not on my to do list or maybe today I said fuck that to do list

Today my worth as woman being defined as this is a crooked concept anyways
so today I paid in worry, instead.
I said I love you in wonder-
thought this was efficient enough to show my caring but sometimes
inquiry reads like an inquisition
(especially when all of me can’t be the answer after the question marks)

So today I missed that mark entirely,
and it wasn’t even a test
and I barely believe in blame but maybe this was my fault
I mean my fault lines are ever present.
I’m from California,
after all.
I learned cracking from my own coastline,
after all.

So today I split like the grand champion of Oreo dunking
‘Least today I don’t break quite as much as yesterday,
it’s more bendy this time
but it’s still uncomfortable because

Today I don’t break I just break down
(sometimes I break myself for others also but that’s another poem, or is it?)

Today I vow to pay even more attention than I think I can afford so as not to keep doing dumb shit,
so as not to build sustainable lives that become unsustainable lives
when plural becomes singular-
Is that what happened today?
Did I build myself non-renewable on purpose?

Today I speak about myself as a resource I value
and I am afraid to do this but I let fear look good on me.

Today I deal with my control issues.
I play in the sun.
I realize feelings scare everyone who has vilified them
even when they show up
looking like me,
looking like joy
(or worse
comfort
or worse
safety)

Why is being happy so damn uncomfortable?

Today I cry all over the place
(privately.)

I self soothe
maybe too much
because I feel let down easily
maybe too much
but I’m trying to delete the phrase too much from my vocabulary anyways so

Today I unpack the trauma before it becomes gossip in my own head, tomorrow.
Today I try to untangle the Christmas lights of life I seem to have
boxed boxed re-boxed.

Today I kiss clouds in my head &
I forget to forget the things that hurt me, can’t separate fully from the ones that help me so today
I forget to forget your masonry,
the fingerprints you left between the bricks.
Today I heard our abandonment issues out-loud
and I remembered we don’t have to leave a person to leave them but maybe we should.
Today I rip out the realities I religiously reside with and
I find future
I find myself
I find fantasy
in everything,
even in this day-

Today.