It’s strange.
They always speak roughly,
And talk down to me,
Eyes full of contempt,
Disgust,
Irritation,
They dismiss my voice without a single thought,
I disappear.
With a softened voice,
They treat the pretty girl with care,
And speak fondly of her long, loose hair,
Her fair, bright skin,
Her slim, long nose,
And her short, nimble legs,
Oh —and of course— they always stare.
I can be pretty too!
I can stifle my laugh so I’m not “too ghetto,”,
I can lower my voice so I’m not “too aggressive,”,
I can smile through the pain so I won’t ever be called “mean” again.
But no matter how much I try,
They will always still call me that “female,”,
And they will always croon the pretty girl’s true name.
No matter how much I try,
My dark skin, my long legs, and my tight curls,
Will always mark me as masculine.
Everything about me will always erase my femininity,
My identity,
My name.
So, I tremble in anger,
I clench my fists,
And I roar like the animal you’ve always made me out to be.
I’ll give you what you want,
and make myself the monster you’ve always seen.
When I speak with firm conviction,
When I call you out,
When I stand up for myself,
It’s suddenly a political statement.
Why?
Because the truth makes you uncomfortable?
Because your silence projects your decaying character?
Because your willful ignorance makes you a perpetrator?
So instead of holding it in,
I choose to give up,
And I choose to cry.
I cry, and cry, and cry.
I never see pretty girls cry,
So I’ll do the one thing I know they can’t:
Cry.
It’s the ugly girls who always cry.
