I need feminism because at 2 a.m.,
instead of adoringly telling me what he would do to make me see stars,
he whispered, “I’m going to make you such a dirty slut,”
so that I could attend to his needs
and serve him.
I need feminism because it’s trashy for me to put a piece
of permanent art on my thigh,
but any male can step into a back room of a filthy meth lab house,
share needles with his “bros” and be complimented
on his sick tat.
I need feminism because at 16,
when my friends weren’t there for me and I turned to the boys who were like my family,
my father told me I would ruin my reputation if I didn’t stop talking to them.
I need feminism because I am either too much of a
or I show too much skin.
There is no in between.
My breasts became something to cover as a teenager,
because men might get the wrong idea.
My legs were suddenly too long and curvy
to wear shorts, because then they would be a distraction.
I was only ever taught to pop a pill every day
to control my body from creating another human being,
instead of being told, “Always make sure he wears protection.”
I am criticized for working too much,
made fun of for wanting to be taken care of.
How do I please you and be the poster woman of your dreams?
Actually, don’t answer that.
I’ll be the woman of my dreams.
And make myself happier than you ever could.