He said,
"Raise your fists!
You are apart of this revolution!"
But I could tell he didn't want me anymore...
(when he saw my armpit hair)
I thought:
Maybe he's not turned off.
Maybe he just thinks I am queer and don't like men.
Well, sometimes I don't.
(At moments like those)
I could tell he didn't know what it was like to hold a woman.
Who hasn't:
taken razor to skin.
plucked out what grows with metal.
given herself chemical burns trying to make it dissapear.
(just so he'll want her)
Then he asked me if I was queer...
And admitted he was turned off....
FUCK.
I told him that after it grows out it goes back to being soft.
and it is touching the bark of a tree
after hours in a
hard.
lacquered.
chair.
I said, "Maybe you're just scared.
I could be what you are!"
(I told him of all the places a woman grows hair)
His face looked like I had thrown the
etch-a-sketch of a woman
he'd spent the last 24 years crafting
across the room.
FUCK.
He was right to be scared.
Because I was trying to usurp him.
And his patriarchy...
And his privilege...
And And And
Then...
I told him that I loved him
and his body
and his 'womanly hips' he'd joked about.
I touched them, grabbed them.
I kissed him and told him:
"I have no expectations of you...
to be. to look. to do. to say. to think. to feel. to like. to want. "
I grabbed his fist and we made love
(and started the revolution)