Pretty Boy calls my body “Hourglass”
Funny, I’m not the one wasting my time.

(He got some things right, though. My body is not soft. My body is not fruit. My body is hard. My body takes its time.)

Pretty Boy wants a grain of sand; doesn’t care that he has to break the whole thing to get it.

While he’s at it, Pretty Boy takes more than he originally intended. Takes more than he was offered.

He Takes
and takes
and takes

and doesn’t give a ****.
He broke that too.

Now I’m all washed up in this lake of glass.
Well, it’s a good thing he likes long walks on the beach.
Or ***** as he calls it
“it,” of course, being me.

Pretty Boy knows exactly what not to say
to get me to sleep with him
Pretty Boy is confused
wants to know why I 'do not like' him.

Now I could tell Pretty Boy:

A. that I like girls
B. that I’m seeing someone
C. that I’m just not interested.
D. that I —-

But this is not multiple choice.
This is extended response.

One where I repeat the same thing

over
and over
and over

to all the Pretty Boys.

They tried to
               erase us
                   with
               correction pen

Running over us
              with white

As if there's
              something wrong
         with the melanin
                       in our skins

Forgetting
             That we all
                    are
              pink and red
                           inside

I am standing in the spot where my family almost died
Here, in this land
All of life turned gray
Not the temporary gray of a rainy day
Not the gray of a fading photograph
No
The gray like ash
Or the ashes of the fallen
Gray like the plumes of smoke
Billowing out from the gas chambers
Standing in this spot
I feel connected
A pull
A throwback to my roots

I feel so… somber
Like I can see that day
January 27th 1945
My family members
Or what was left
Some of the 6,000 that were left
Staring and wondering
Is this real?
Or
Is this just another delusion brought on by hunger
Or are we free?
They told us we were free back in the day
But no
We walked for 40 years into the hands of a new oppression
Into a stereotype
Into the **** of a joke
Into the law offices and bank teller of the world

Go back a little further
Back into Poland
Before 1945
Think 1944
I know what a needle and ink on skin feels like
But I cannot imagine it by force
Forced away from the laws of my religion
A name, reduced to a number
24601
No
More like A-98288 on a forearm
No
I can feel the burn
In my eyes and in my lungs
Not from the gas and the filth
But from the pain of generations of jews and others labeled as different
As not pure

I feel the pull
The connection
Severed
My grandmothers 14 siblings reduced to 3
Back to 1945
I feel…
Empty
My existence no longer focused on minute by minute survival
I feel…
A flutter
Of anxiety, of pain, of…
Hope…
Brought on by these men in uniform not seated in hate
Hope that we might live
Hope that the end is here!
But not the end that we have prayed for

Fade into color
I am standing in the spot where history almost erased me
And I remember all the years of oppression
And I can see how it continues
And I can see how it needs to change

I am standing in front of my peers
Asking
No
Begging you to see what I see
I am begging for change
I am begging for peace

I keep my mouth closed,
using super glue like it's chapstick.
Lips sealed but hands free, writing my secrets into poetry,
I sometimes feel very cowardly only being able to share empty words about my empty feelings  to empty faces on this empty stage.
Empty.
I don’t cry as often as I should, maybe I’m just drained, maybe I’ve just emptied
The drain that connects my tear glands to the rest of my body.
And on the off chance I cry-
my pillow must have nightmares from my screams,
and sometimes- sometimes I hear my pillow sobbing with me.

When I was little,
I used to hate having my door closed,
I would scream and cry
In fear of what the shadows could hold.
I was afraid of a box
Where I’d be held hostage
Caged with a lock
And no key
Back then
That pain was like the sting of a bee.
Now at 17 I realize that I wasn’t afraid of the dark
I was afraid of depression
Making its mark.
I was afraid of the endless battle of trying to fall asleep
Not wanting to wake up
But not wanting to dream.
I was afraid of the hope I would lose in that battle
Afraid of the chains
That made my hollow bones rattle,
Because in the light of a new day
I’d stay inside
“I’m tired” I’d say,
But the truth was much simpler
Than a cheap fix
I am afraid of myself
And I can’t change it.

The only other girl at the party
is ranting about feminism.
The audience: a sea of **** jokes and snapbacks
and styrofoam cups and me.
They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain
clogged with too many opinions.
I shoot her an empathetic glance
and say nothing. This house is for
wallpaper women. What good
is wallpaper that speaks?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
whose coffee table silence
will these boys rest their feet on?

These boys…
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if someone takes my spot?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if everyone notices I’ve been
sitting this whole time? I am ashamed
of keeping my feminism in my pocket
until it is convenient not to, like at poetry
slams or woman studies classes.
There are days I want people to like me
more than I want to change the world.
Once I forgave a predator because
I was afraid to start drama in our friend group
two weeks later he assaulted someone else.
I’m still carrying the guilt in my purse.

There are days I forget we had to invent
nail polish to change color in drugged
drinks and apps to virtually walk us home
and lipstick shaped mace and underwear designed to prevent ****.

Once a man behind me at an escalator
shoved his hand up my skirt
from behind and no one around me
said anything,
so I didn’t say anything.
Because I didn’t wanna make a scene.

Once an adult man made a necklace
out of his hands for me and
I still wake up in hot sweats
haunted with images of the hurt
of girls he assaulted after I didn’t report,
all younger than me.

How am I to forgive myself for doing
nothing in the mouth of trauma?
Is silence not an active violence too?

Once, I told a boy I was powerful
and he told me to mind my own business.

Once, a boy accused me of practicing
misandry. “You think you can take
over the world?” And I said “No,
I just want to see it. I just need
to know it is there for someone.”

Once, my dad informed me sexism
is dead and reminded me to always
carry pepper spray in the same breath.
We accept this state of constant fear
as just another component of being a girl.
We text each other when we get home
safe and it does not occur to us that
not all of our guy friends have to do the same.
You could literally saw a woman in half
and it would still be called a magic trick.
Wouldn’t it?
That’s why you invited us here,
isn’t it? Because there is no show
without a beautiful assistant?
We are surrounded by boys who hang up
our naked posters and fantasize
about choking us and watch movies that
we get murdered in. We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.