It's having to say
I'm a lesbian- I'm pregnant- I have a boyfriend
No, I'm not a lesbian because I haven't been with a real man- yes, really, I'm pregnant it's just not showing yet- Yes he does love me he's just not here because he's working
Because I don't like you, please leave me alone, and no do not work in clubs, on the street, anywhere I go...
It's holding onto a **** whistle, mace, and concealed knife when I go anywhere alone, holding my keys between my fingers when walking down dark, unfamiliar streets.
It's being told not to wear a skirt when I go dancing, because someone will slip their hand under it.
It's wearing shorts and having them shove grimy fingers inside anyway
It's using a fake name, sharing fake contact info, claiming a fake residence so that they don't track you
It's being appalled when some guy from the restaurant tracks you down on social media using the name on your credit card
It's being careful not to let him know you like him because he might take that as consent for more
It's work sending us out in groups to take the trash out at night because it's not safe to walk the alleyway behind the building alone
Unless you're one of my male coworkers
It's being groped and slapped in class and having no one, not even the teacher, challenge my attacker because he's a man and it's all in good humor, right?
It's walking across the street to avoid a guy in pace behind you, even in broad daylight. It's your friend stiffening when they pass on the right.
It's looking rude and foolish when you deny them a handshake, a hug, or a reason. Because they're nice, right? They haven't done anything yet, right? Don't they deserve your respect and interest?
No, maybe not all men are bad. But enough of them are that we have the right to fear and use the hashtag #allmen
Because every woman has been harassed, told that his bullying just means he likes you, taught to just take it. Every woman has been in some sort of situation where a man has made her uncomfortable, and society has done nothing about it.
So yes, #Yesallwomen

Two years old, he totters towards his mutti's skirts
She turns away, for the decanter, and locks him in his room
Oh! He wails, pounding his little fists against the floor,
But she finds him asleep on the rug, clutching an old poppet to his breast
She lifts him to his crib and kisses his sodden cheek, checking her abuse at the door
Her smile is smug, folded away into her adulteration of love.

Five years old and he asks after his sire,
Tracing the beading of her mourning dress, as she kneels with him
As if he were a snake and she was stricken,
she drops him squat on the cold floorboards. Pulls herself within,
Then reaches to him,
Whispering condemnation and condolence
He backs away, burning his hand on the fire grate, the love in his eyes as dim.

When he is seven, the boy takes up a twisted love for architecture, swears he'll become a sailor, far from home
Her eyes are a cooling, somber grey-blue, they alight then smolder with a hiss
The boy's eyes are green, flush with life and innocence
They're his .

And how can you say I think nothing but of myself! Am I as narcissistic as my father?
When I memorize every detail garnered of those I speak with, on a daily basis. When I take their history and position into account when regarding their words?
When I often choose the phrases which will please them most? When I am counseled and skilled in only my words. My concern is often naught but for those I love, my own desires be ******. Though when they make appearance, I cannot reconcile them to silence.
It's true, I am a vain and pride thing, that regards herself as well when she speaks,
But I thought you knew better than that.

For I am lonelier still, surrounded by those who cannot fall and break along side me, but only stand in my light when it matches theirs.

"The problem with suicide is that when it becomes an option in your mind, it's always an option."