To the people who are angry that I dare to exist as myself…

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They think I can’t hear

when they’re talking

that weird s*hit they slip under

that poorly formed quip

I can’t help them

take up knitting?

For the souls that think

that I care what they think

I need you to decide

why you’ve let blatant lies

Seep deep down inside

fracturing your ability to reason

You think I can’t tell when you’re treating me

Unwell, ways that I don’t deserve

An expertly formed hell

at no point have you ever been clearer

that my soul should stay further, not nearer

you sincerely bore me anyway

To the creepy old men

that like to pretend

you don’t sniff my air as I walk by

trying to see if you can get your rocks off

simply by imaging some dirty fantasy

you dared to conceive

in your depravity

I can’t help you

maybe grow up and go to therapy

To anyone else

who I put on the shelf

because I hated myself

I’m sorry

I didn’t quite know

what decades of objectification

would show about what had been inflicted upon

my psyche

By wolves in sheep’s clothing

PS don’t touch me without permission if you haven’t earned that right. I am not public property, and I don’t appreciate the” comforting hand” on my shoulder of men who STILL think they can tell me what to do.

F*uck you