if a man puts his hands on me
i'm supposed to accept it,
be grateful
because fighting back is-
hateful?
you're goddamn right i hate
the feel of his fingertips
touching me in places i don't want them to be.
my skin is something i have to live in
and i can't do that
if he's trying to make it his place, too.
you're goddamn right i hate the fact that we -
women -
have to huddle inside ourselves
because the men don't like
the creatures we become when we free
ourselves from their cages;
or because we're afraid of what they'll do
when they realize we can fly.
and you're goddamn right
i hate the look in their eyes
when they think they've clipped us and left us for dead,
their smiles when they think the only way we'll heal
is in their fists.
well my fists are clenched too
and i don't care about bruises or split knuckles,
because i'll gladly split some skin
against a jaw that thinks it can say whatever it wants to me.
whether i'm alone under a streetlamp
or just trying to do my job
it may be hateful but i'll gladly break the hand
that tries to touch me or my sisters
without permission, without consent.
it might be hateful -
it is hateful -
you're goddamn right it's hateful,
but i have a right to hate what hates me
for no other reason than that i know
that i do not exist to please him.
YOU ARE READING
Feminist Rage
PoetryA collection of poems about feminism, empowerment, and the power of change. (all poems are mine)