She is Sex;

I want you to feel uncomfortable when you read this.

I want you to think about the words that you’ve said and the looks you’ve given me, or her. I want you to cringe at the next line and the next and the next, like I’ve cringed at your ‘compliments.’ & I don’t want it to be because you have a sister, a mother, a wife, or a daughter, but simply because— I am a person.

I want your skin to crawl when you see the effect you have on me, when that light goes on in your head that I, too, am a human being and that my skin is always moving when I feel your eyes, even if I hold my breath, my skin still creeps in your presence. I want you to listen to yourself when you tell me that I’ve lead you on with my eyebrows, because what kind of a woman would raise her eyebrows in your direction if she didn’t want to be fucked?

I want you to eat your words when you tell me that you only did it because you knew I wouldn’t be weird about it. I want you to take responsibility and choke on your own blue balls, because they are not, and never have been any of my concern. I want you to go back to the basics, to learn the meaning of “yes” and of “no.” I want you to know that it doesn’t make me a ho, if and when I don’t say no.

I am a woman & I am sexual and that doesn’t mean that I am here for your viewing pleasure.

I want you to realize that I am allowed to enjoy sex, and that it doesn’t make me any less. I am not dirty, used up, easy, cheap, sloppy seconds, or any other hip cliche’ equating my body and my soul to something that can be consumed, purchased, or soiled for your pleasure.

I want you to know that you don’t own me, you never have, and you never will,
no one’s dick is important enough to change my identity.

This face is a carefully spelled F-U-C-K Y-O-U, not a fuck me. I am not sending you mixed signals, your illiteracy has nothing to do with me.

& I’m only going to say this once, I don’t owe you a fucking smile.

And even if I sound strong now, I may not always be so fired up. Society has taught me to laugh it off, and let it happen, not to cause a scene. Society tells me that I should be flattered, that I should blush and say thank you.

I wish I could be strong when it counts.

I aspire to one day be able to look you dead in the eye, until you squirm, and say without faltering, and without a doubt in my mind, that what you said, and what you did, was not, is not & will not be okay. Society tells me that I shouldn’t have been drinking, that maybe I was showing too much skin, or my skirt was too short.

I have sex shoulders, she has a sex face, it’s my lips, my eyes, it’s her hair;
we are asking for it simply by existing.

I wish I had been strong when you touched me too long, or too low.

I only want you to understand that I don’t belong to you, we don’t belong to you.

“But, did you tell him ‘no’?”

As you were lying naked, gasping for air, helpless, drunk, or roofied… but did you?

Because if you didn’t, how would he know? And if you did, did you say it forcefully enough?

Because maybe he thought you were being playful— boys are quite dense, you know, especially when they’re thinking with the one-eyed monster.

“He’s a good guy though.”

That’s my favorite line,
because it tells me that he can’t
& won’t
be held responsible,

& even if it’s true,
no one can believe it,
no one will believe it,
because it’s a hard truth,

& the only thing that has the right to be hard is his dick.

And we can’t reconcile how such a good guy could do, say, or think such a terrible thing.
“He simply wasn’t himself…it was a fluke… but maybe you were…” Why is it so much easier to believe in the vile temptress, the tease, the slut, the young seductress? It’s easy to blame her, because she’s the one who looks like sex.

It’s not his fault,
she wanted it,
you could tell just by looking at her.

He was only doing what comes naturally.
You can’t blame him.

But I do.

I blame him, but I also blame myself, for buying into the lies
that that have been hurled in my face since I was young. The one’s telling me that femininity is weak, that we women, are the lesser sex. The lies that tell me I shouldn’t leave the house looking unpresentable, because I need to be desirable or what is my life worth? But not too desirable because no man likes an immodest woman. The lies that tell me I should be meek and polite, and not speak out of turn, or too rashly, or disrespectfully to a man.

Well, let me just tell you,
I am Polite as FUCK.


I see your ‘manners,’ your chivalry,
and I raise you human decency, and mutual respect.

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