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Across from the pool I stand, With a drink and a heart in my hand.
Dressed to the nines, praying he'll see, Praying he'll spare a thought for me
And as I lean against the garden wall And hope that he's begun the fall,
I fail to notice one small thing: The boy next to me.
With a sideways smirk and a flick of the wrist --
And only because he's sure I'm pissed -- His hand snakes its way along the wall
And then slows and approaches with a steady crawl
To reach the heart of my so called sin And take a photo of what lies within
And I'd like to say that I didn't notice, care
But if we're being honest
I couldn't bare to be 'that ***' I didn't want to cause a scene.
Because who could like a girl that would yell and scream,
So I hid it all under my skin
Because too much emotion lets them undermine you,
Conform to the fashion of blaming your body for passion
And ignore the fact That I as a woman am able to experience rage
Anger Fury
And ninety nine point nine per cent of the time it isn't related to whether or not Aunt
Flo has popped in just to say hello And it shouldn't undermine my worth or my
strength And it shouldn't be a measure of the length
or the breadth Of respect that I deserve, and that my emotions
reserve, Nor an order for a serving of 'she's got an
emotional disorder.'
But sixteen year old me was blind And had closed her mind to the notion that
She had the power to stand up and say hey
This is my body I didn't give you the keys to this squeeze
You're a skeeze and a ***
But I don't blame you Because whilst my dress is subject to scrutiny
and farce Repeated tuts as my mother and father ask
'Do you want to be ***? Because that's what's what's coming!
You're walking voyeurism and it's unbecoming.' You get away without a second glance,
No father to warn you against unwelcome advance You're ignorant -- and I'm sorry to be blunt
But society has raised you to be an absolute ***.
And while we're on the topic Why does '***' mean weak?
Why does it make us wince, when '***' doesn't even make us shrink.
A flaccid ***'s a strong, powerful king. And yet my gripping muscle is synonymous with
'weakling'
And back en pointe: to be sure, If I stuck my camera underneath his --
I'd be labelled a desperate, creepy ***. But when he does it: 'right on, nice job mate'
And that's *** rich.
So this is my revenge more than one year on Hopefully he's grown, reversed that brawn
And grown himself a brain or maybe two, Straightened himself out, fresh and new.
The point is Society's ***
And what you just heard was an attempt to deconstruct
How I came to the conclusion That equality is an illusion
Bred in the lives of first-world women Who think of feminism as a hairy-legged delusion.
'Give up,' they say, 'we're all equal,' And sure there's no stoning
But that doesn't excuse the un-asked-for boning, Not owning our emotions and
The binaries in our language denying homology now -
Stop. A smidge of what was still is
And until every little girl can stand up Until femininity and strength aren't exclusive
Until every parent preaches 'don't ***'
Don't stop Don't falter
Trust in your heart and let others know That you are here
Man or woman you are here And your emotions
And your notions Are as strong and as real as the ocean
And deserve the same respect Reserved by everyone else around you.
The boy across the circle never fell But I'll never forget the guy next to me
I'll forever owe him for setting me free For opening my eyes to the small offences
Present in our first-world, and hence Making me a feminist
Not for hatred of man Nor favour of woman
But for the prayer of equal opportunity The unity of our community against the immunity
And naturalization Of small acts that leave seeds of devastation
Across our world.