as a person in my position, i have very little right to write about prejudice. being a christian, i am taught about persecution but i don't really face it considering it's one of the world's most popular religions. the biggest so-called aggression might be a coffee cup that adjusts its design to include all people and all celebrations held in the winter time, or maybe a national pledge removing mention of my deity in order to apply more to everybody, especially considering this country was founded by those who wanted to practice their respective religions freely. i have no right to speak for my muslim sisters and brothers who are forced to apologize for the islamic equivalent of the ku klux ****. what happened to 'all lives matter' when the matter of syrian refugees drifts up, carried by the streets paved in blood, carried by boats across oceans and for some reason these lives don't matter?
to add to the injury i am a middle class white kid, and i hate to break it to you but reverse racism doesn't exist. institutions are not arranged in a way to put me down and keep me quiet. i am rewarded for my successes, called 'bright,' and when my sports team loses i am allowed to cause more damage than those who start a riot over injustices worth having a voice for. i can join the marches and use my position to raise others' voices but i must be careful not to drown them out, because i do not have authority to place my voice above those who have lived the experience
but i do have a different set of experiences my own:
biologically speaking, i am female. according to consumerism, i want a thigh gap wider than the wage gap-- oh, wait, statistically speaking that can't exist, not when we are discouraged by ongoing systems not to discuss salary, conversations that might shed light on evasion of what i deserve. bring up feminism and the first thing you'll hear is "oh, so if everyone is equal, i can hit a girl, right?" no, because i don't want you to hit me. because you shouldn't want to hit anybody, regardless of gender identity. how scary, how scary, that the first thing that comes to a cisgendered male's mind when he thinks 'equality' is abuse. another thing you're bound to hear is "well then i shouldn't have to hold doors open for women" as if politeness is taken away when you stop seeing me as something weak. hopefully you've been taught manners at some point in your despairing life.
i can't even begin to approach the topic of the persecution of trans women, but i can give you the horror stories of my sexuality:
lesbians hate me because how dare i also like guys, straight guys disgust me because they only think 'three-way' when they see 'bi,' gay kids just tell me to pick a side, and my mother will say how it's one or the other as she rolls her eyes. if i date a dude, they tell me it's hetero. if i date a chick, they call me a *****. it's like my identity is only valid when i'm all alone: otherwise i'm either not welcome at pride parties or not welcome in my own home. don't get me started on the poor pan kids who are told that they're just being pretentious bisexuals, or the ace kids told that they just need to be fixed, or the kids confused about the difference between a sexuality and 'political correctness' (news flash: you just have to respect someone's humanity)
here, i'll repeat it: respect someone's humanity.
if someone tells you that you hurt them,
you have no right to decide that you didn't.
when a marginalized group makes fun of you, it is not a reverse anything because all they are doing is hurting your individual feelings, whereas they are put down by the normativity engrained in us from cradle to grave. you tell us to stop being so sensitive but then get angry when all the fed-up trans kids shout "down with cis!" or all the black voices rise to rally "black lives matter!" or women saying that they "hate all men!"
after all,
if i told you i had a plate of cookies, ten in total,
two with laxatives and one with cyanide,
would you take the risk?
or would you just assume that all the cookies are potentially poisoned?

Sugar and spice and everything nice,
Wolverine claws and a venomous bite,
Armed to the teeth for a ***** fight:
This is what teenage girls are made of.

Maybe I fall in love too easily,
But I’m just sixteen.
And I’m just sixteen but
When you cat call me and I pretend not to hear you,
You call me catty as if it’s surprising.
When you wolf whistle at me and I ignore you,
You call me names that aren’t PG.
I’m just sixteen but I’ve got news for you:
I’m a she-wolf, far from domesticated so
Whistling will do nothing for you.
I don’t answer the call of any man, because
I’m a lioness, and every time you catcall me
You forget who does the hunting.
You need reminding, to be put in your place.
You’re a predator but I’m not your prey-
No, you’re a predator but I’m much, much
Much higher up on the food chain.
Whistle and call all night long,
I’ll chew you up and spit you out
Like the kind of bubble gum that isn’t worth a trash can.
I’d call you a pig, but pigs usually have a
Higher IQ than you do.
My bones are made of titanium, of Adamantium, and
My rage came from the cosmos, and I control hurricanes with the water in my lungs.

I am catty,
And I am a *****,
But you are a nobody,
Food for the vultures and
A piece of furniture to sharpen my claws on.
You may be a knife, but my heart is a diamond.
I am a diamond, and you are made of fossil fuels.
We are both the product of years of pressure,
But I took my disasters and made myself beautiful.
You let yourself become ugly, nowhere to go
Except standing on corners late at night,
Pollution spilling from your mouth and your eyes.

Leave me alone.
That’s not me being ‘hard-to-get,’ no,
That’s my wolf howl and the growl of my inner lioness.
Leave me alone,
Or else.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

over two thousand people have jumped off the Golden Gate bridge
and I don’t think a single one of them thought about how weak
hydrogen bonds are.
I don’t think a single one of those two thousand plus people
thought about the fact that it was water at the bottom of their drop.
to me, it seems common knowledge
that hydrogen bonds are the weakest link that elements can make.
people overestimate the strength of surface tension,
even from such a high place.
hydrogen bonds will always break,
just like me and you.
just like mentality
just like sentimentality
just like reality
just like knowing that i’ve only got a year left with you,
cause god knows we aren’t gonna stick it out after high school.
we’re a hydrogen bond in which
i am the hydrogen
because in every situation i find myself to be the weak link,
like everyone else is better off without me.
the problem is, i don’t know what other people are thinking
when they think of me,
because i’m no mind-reader and i’ve never been a good guesser,
so maybe some of those two thousand plus people who
jumped off the Golden Gate bridge actually did think about the weak link,
the lack of strength in hydrogen bonds, the possibility of water
giving out under their weight and their survival rate.
i read somewhere that no matter how you try, your body will do everything
it can to keep you alive. maybe it’s not just your body,
but also your mind manipulating situations to best advance your
survival probability.
because maybe, just maybe, no one really wants to die.
maybe, but it’s a big maybe, because i can’t read minds.

for every copper piece of me,
you are gold.
for every rough stitch pulling me together,
you have been a flawless seam.
you are every proton
and every color
of a chemical reaction,
and i am just the steps in between.
you
are a catalyst,
the start of something,
a star to wish on
as it streaks across the sky.
for every dark,
you are my light.
you are the match setting
fire to my veins made of gasoline,
your body moves like
those flames, flickering,
and your coffee shop smile
keeps me warm
when the rest of my atoms
are nothing but cold.
you
are a catalyst,
and i am going to be here
for the beginning of everything.

Poetry is not synonymous for love.
Poetry is not synonymous for pain.
But I can make its words into an adjective
and use it to describe the tightening in my chest when I look at you
or the tightening in my chest
when you look the other way.

"the longest i have ever gone without showering,"
i tell the group of pre-teen boys
who are staring up at me,
"is two and a half weeks."
they're old enough to be disgusted
because they're old enough to know how often one should shower
but they're still young enough that it
inspires some awe among them.
i don't tell them anything else,
just let them believe that it was simply
me being good at avoiding a persistent mother's reminding.
and im going to let you
pretend that it has nothing to do with the nights that i
spent staring up and my ceiling
wondering how difficult it would be
to just--

Don’t love me.
Please, don’t love me.
I know myself, we’re quite close actually, and let me tell you, you don’t want to fall for her,
you don’t want that girl, I hate her.
I hate her because I know her so well and I know how horrible the truth can smell.
Don’t love me, because even I know to hate myself,
the vanity that despite this loathing I might actually believe that someone could fall for me.
Don’t love me.
Don’t love me, because I met Heartbreak once and she left me gasping for air
and I will never meet her again.
I refuse, so if you love me, please be aware that when you do,
some day I am going to leave you, battered and bruised, because
twisted self-preservation has taught me all the tricks to keep myself afloat by drowning you.
Don’t love me.
Because as much as I will love you, I’m not friends with Commitment,
and whenever I see him on the horizon I set off running in the opposing direction.
I will treat you like there will be no oxygen unless I’m holding you,
but when you’re the one reaching for my hand I’ll become the wind.
Commitment is not my friend, I said, but no one listens.
Don’t love me, because I am a tornado, a storm to chase until I’ve taken everything from you.
Don’t love me.
Someday, you will be married and happy, and I will
whirl back into your life like the hurricane that has never been named after me, and
you will believe that all your scars
and your broken heart
have healed enough that you can run with me.
But I have razors between my fingers and wedged in my teeth,
and your scabbed over heartstrings will be powerless against me.
I am an expert at running, at hurting, at ‘maybe’s.
Don’t love me.
When you ask me for something more,
I will tell you that I am not ready, because I never will be.
Chances scare me, and trusting someone so much will always be risky.
I will tell you that I am not in the right place for your Commitment,
for your future Heartbreak,
and you will tell me that you understand but you’ll stick with me,
and fire will consume everything.
Don’t love me.
I can’t even go a few years with a friendship before
burning it all for at least a few evenings, but we’ll always rebuild the
rickety ashes of the bridges we’ve passed.
Don’t love me.
I’m only saying it for your safety.