tonight I shaved my bush off
for no reason
other than to have
one singular thing
in my life
that feels smooth
and to create the illusion
of something
I can control
about my pussy
and now,
I feel like an infant
most times
but especially now
screaming
and like the only thing
that might shut me up
would be a pair
of tits in my mouth
I bought the “killer dyke” t-shirt
because it felt necessary
because It felt relevant
because it felt holy
to broadcast
this information
both
that I am a dyke
despite the signals
one might think
they’re getting
by looking only*
at the length
of my hair
and never
at the length
of my nails
and
because I needed
to feel
louder
prouder
firmer
butch-er
some thing
that I don’t often
feel recognized for
in public
when I’m alone
I wear it like a badge of honor
I wear it like it’s the badge I won
with blood
I wear it like I won the lottery
because I did
Yes. And. Because.
queer is what taught me
how to truly love
like looking down the barrel of it
someone once said
like heartbeats
to call home
so I bought it
cuz
it felt pertinent
to glow
for people to know
I am in fact a dyke
have felt a brand of love
they may never know
and because
I am in fact a killer
as in,
I’m not taking.
no shit.
no more.
as in,
take your backwards
fascist
sexist
misogynist
racist
transphobic
homophobic
half step
come ons
and set backs
and put downs
and swipe lefts
and dick pics
and quotas
and bibles
and fox juice
and shove it
up
your hole.
check please.
I gotta go.