A girl came up to me on the playground once and asked if I wanted to be a boy.
I said no
because I’m already a girl so what’s the point?
If she would have asked, “Would you rather have been a boy,
from the very beginning?”
Then maybe I would have said yes.
I mean, really, who would say no?
There are the classic complaints:
The periods, the childbirth,
the menopause, the breast cancer,
the yeast infections, the UTI’s,
the fact that the word “vagina” is just plain gross…
Then there are the ones that can’t ever be explained quite right,
the ones that boil blood and make you feel like you could hate for a while:
The glance back as you say thank you to the man holding the door for you
only to see his eyes saying, “no, thank you,” to your ass,
the over-the-shirt-bra-unhook in the cafeteria,
the attendance office wardrobe change to rid the classroom of you, the distraction,
the “No means yes, yes means anal!” chant that breeds camaraderie in the hallway.
No Homecoming dance is complete without,
“To the window, to the wall,
til the sweat drip down my balls,
til all these bitches crawl.”
The stupid DJs always play the edited version,
but it’s OK because everyone knows the words
so they just sing the bleeped out parts extra loud.
I don’t like when girls stuff their faces.
Girls who smoke weed are unattractive.
If you wore spandex like the volleyball girls,
you’d probably have more fans show up at your games.
I’m not dressing to impress you, I’m wearing this FOR MYSELF.
But the reflection in the mirror, she hopes you’ll like it because she likes you.
Do you like me?
You’re a whore.
You’re so high, high above me.
I love him and he loves me too if I show him that I love him.
Being a woman does grant the unique ability of transforming spaces.
Empty parking lot?
Put a woman in it, and it becomes a wide-open clearing in the Savannah.
The fumbling keys sound off the dreaded thrill of the wild concrete crossing.
Add a woman walking, and it becomes a venue for erotic spoken word
with her as the sole inspiration and audience
This time I really love him and he loves me too and he also loves Rachel.
A woman in India was raped by a group of men with a pipe.
She died with spaghetti intestines.
I heard a story about a woman who goes around killing little baby girls
to spare them from living.
You’re a sculpture.
You’re a thousand sculptures.
You’re blind justice and lady liberty.
You’re ships and planes and cars with men in them and on them.
I love him and he loves me and
I was wrong about thinking that I knew what love was before.
With him, I am not a she and he is not a he,
We are just a we.
Maybe I would have said no
to the girl’s question if she would have asked if I’d rather have been a boy
but probably not.