Instead

Could you hold me instead?

Instead of me writing dreadful truths, prayers too petrifying to whisper to you, to God, most certainly to myself.

Could we forget about her and her?

Could we honor them later but first, could you just hold me instead?

Could you ignore my racing heart and welled up tears?

Could you look the other way if one escapes?

Could we forget about the reasons you shouldn’t be here?

Could we honor them later but first, could you fold a little deeper into me?

Could you promise me this and that by stroking my arm and kissing my cheek?

Could you mean it?

Could you catch my love when I pour it over your body? Wear it like a regal robe? An impenetrable armor?

Could you trust it?

Can you feel it?

Because I can feel you.

Stroking my arm and kissing my cheek.

Silently promising yes.

When the Giggle Goes

It's one of the first things they notice. 

One of the first traits they complement.

The giggle.

My giggle.  

"Damn girl, that giggle is so cute."

"So adorable."

"Too goddamn adorable."

"You keep giggling like that, gonna mess around and make me want to do things to you."

The higher the pitch, the better.

The more I giggle like an innocent schoolgirl in response to their manly bravado, the harder their dicks get. 

I could stop the giggle.

Never tease them with the sound of voluntary submission, executed with ease and a smile.

But, shit. I'm just as guilty.

Their manly bravado turns me on, makes me coo and wiggle. And when I'm feeling flirtatious, that's the laugh that escapes my lips.

But then it comes. It always comes.

The time when the giggle goes. 

When my cooing is replaced with feminist diatribes of truth and self-respect. 

When the giggle goes and the questions come. 

When the giggle goes and challenge comes.

Pushback comes. 

Opinions come. Opinions that differ from theirs arrive and stay and don't back down. 

That's when they run. Chuck up the deuces and continue on their trek towards the next giggling cutie. 

I let them go.

But those that stay?

Well, that's a different story. 

When my giggle goes and the depth creeps in...

There are certain men that don't run. 

They don't roll their eyes. 

They lay down that male bravado and engage me as an equal, a worthy and welcomed opponent and teammate in the battle of wits.

Well, let's just say that's when the panties drop. 

The giggle goes.

It always goes. 

But for the right ones, the real ones, it's always sure to return. 

Women's March

It must feel so good to have so many allies. 

I know your struggle. Hell, I live your struggle. 

I am a woman.

And it's hard to write this. It feels divisive because please believe me when I say I appreciate every pair of feet that marched today.

Unfortunately, it's hard for my heart to not hurt just a little.

When I was crying at work after the umpteenth shooting and you couldn't REALLY understand why. 

When you gave me an awkward pat on the back and didn't know what to say.

When you told me my Facebook posts about equality were pointless "white noise" but today my feed is flooded with pictures of white women taking a stand for themselves "and others".

When you ignorantly displayed micro-aggression after micro-aggression towards me then cried when Trump was elected. 

When you gently asked me if I perhaps misunderstood when I told you my interactions with police but today the entire fucking world stands with you. 

Millions marching for the precious white female. 

Yes, I know it was done for more than just that demographic. 

Yes, I know a lot of these people that marched today also take a stand for others, have been a part of the struggle since before I was born.

But when I see the protests for those young black boys, I can't help but notice the crowds are overwhelmingly brown.

Now, this orange man threatens the privileges of our precious white queens and they fear they will receive the same treatment we've endured for centuries?  

Now the world must stand? 

Now we must make noise?

I hate to sound divisive. 

We have the common goal of equality and freedom. 

We absolutely have the same enemy of the white supremacist patriarchy.

But why weren't you outraged when it was just me and my black boys at risk?

Why were you awkwardly supportive but unsure of what to say?

Why were my tears nothing but white noise that clearly made you uncomfortable but you can't stop screaming about the rights of your pussy today?

My heart can't help but hurt a little.

Even in our solidarity, you make my place clear.

My life is my problem. Your reproductive health is our problem, the world's problem.

I appreciate you coming along. I appreciate you standing up. I hate that you had to be personally threatened to get the fucking message. I hate that that's how it works nine times our of ten.

I stand with you.

I love your tenacity and strength. I love your solidarity that I know for many of you has always been there.

But when I see the millions, when I see the sea of people marching now that they've been touched personally, now that their white mothers and wives and daughters have experienced a mere fragment of our reality...

Well, I hate to be divisive but...

My heart can't help but hurt a little.