I was 12 when he leaned out of his pick-up truck,

looking for a quick pick-me-up

in the form of bright blue nail varnish

and sweet, naive innocence.

I remember the burn of my lungs,

running from something

that was far bigger than

shameful summer days.

Now, I walk with keys between

each of my fingers,

crossing over my knuckles like barbed wire

caging me to night.

Every headlight a blinking warning,

the LED of my phone screen

already displaying a

pre-dialed 9-1-1.

I feel my mother’s criticisms

kneading me into a featureless form .

They rattle around my skull,

slithering into self doubt and self restraint.

Telling me to shape up

and be less obtuse.

Molding me into pliant,

unblemished perfection.

I’ve only ever known

bending over backwards

so my bruised beaten bones form battered bridges

for others to walk upon.

I wish I could take every apology

and inhale it back into my lungs

just to know what reclaiming

my own thoughts feels like.

There is no pride in being played

with the bow of your own sympathy,

degradation in its resounding symphony

creating toxic, twisting melodies

out of generations of

muffled, smothered dignities.

The lyrics taste bitter

flowing from my lips.

I’ve heard it from the women

I respect the most in life

and the men I respect the least,

their static filled cautions

echoing like dirty admissions

through clenched teeth.

That is what having this body feels like;

dirty.

It’s easy to fake feminism

until praise and Tumblr-esque mottos

drip like ink from my pores

and I start to believe I have a voice.

But this world is cruel enough

to not be made for me.

Instead I watch raw voices scream

unto deaf ears and save my own speech.

I live 75 cents to a dollar,

the 1 in 5 statistic on every paper.

There is no place for vocalization in a world of

Kavanaugh’s and Weinstein’s and CK’s.

Every joke and movie a sick reminder

of gags and suffering in stiff silence.

Every unuttered word stitching together

into a resounding cry of Me Too

The future is female

but the future seems bleak.

Julie Swetnick,

Where is your justice?

Deborah Ramirez,

Where is your justice?

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford,

Where is your justice?

Amma, I’m trying but it’s so hard.

I can’t be this, and I can’t be that,

my limbs can only stretch so far.

And I am running

and my thoughts are running

through my head and

Amma please tell me;

Can I ever be anything at all?