Inside of my pocket, I carry around bobby pins I'll probably lose later on that day,hair ties I'll let my best friend borrow,never to get back ever again.And most importantly, something that no one else can see.
My pocket lint.
I am ashamed of seeing it on the news, online and on TV, so I stuff it in my pockethoping that when I wash my jeans, it'll disintegrate awayBut it is always there and it always will be.
Well, sometimes it goes away, only to come back days later when I'm least expecting it. In headed discussions about feminism,poetry slams,readings about sexism,I'm up, not afraid to be seen or heard,fists clenched, mouth armed with a heavy retort,only to silenced
when I think about the things that could happen to all those other girls
because I didn't report.
I carry around that guilt in my pocket every day,
And ultimately like your face,
like all the women Hemmingway and Fitgerald wrote away,
I've become a question mark, too.
Who am I?
What do I stand for?
I stand for what's right and fight what is wrong,
but when the crowd is larger than me,
calling for victim blaming,
and the end of feminism,
and there are only so many chairs to go around.
I get scared, but it's my time.
It's my only shot.
But what if when I'm gone,someone decides takes my spot.
When I think about all the things I want to say,
the pocket lint of guilt I have weighs me down
I try to shovel it out, thinking about buying new jeans
but it's only a game I'm going to lose.
My guilt is wearing me,
But it's when I see another young girl assaulted on the news,
that I write things like this
And until crimes like rape and sexual assault,
are treated like murder and theft,
I'm going to keep writing,
until there's no material left.
