Jayme F

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)