Red cheeks, cross legged, angry.
Throat clenched, mascara dripped, hysterical.
I have not left my apartment in two days.
When the pizza delivery man came to my door,
I had already thought up five ways to scream
for help before my fingers reached the knob.
This is causal. This is expected of me.
When I walk home alone after dark
I am considered irresponsible, a moving target.
My family gave me a pink kitty keychain that
could rip through a grown mans liver
as a departing gift when I left for college.
Even when defending myself I must still be a lady.
Over dinner many nights, too many, my father
watches hockey fights and reminds me to always
go for the groin. He says it is “their only weak spot.”
I want to vomit into my mashed potatoes, I agree instead.
No longer do I want to be polite.
No longer do I want to have the choice of ten different
iPhone apps to call for help when I will eventually be raped.
In health class, we are taught that one in six women will
have no voice, no mercy, no decision.
Boys, always asked what girls do at sleepovers,
out of a learned flirtation we keep silent.
The truth is that we stay up swapping war stories.
We are the losing half of history.
Red eyes, fists clenched, angry.