Killer Dyke.



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.

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