In Between the Lines
One time, a man told me I needed to have hips to be a real woman.
I am a size two, maybe four at the most.
I don't have hips, I have broad shoulders and a menacing stance.
Am I not a real woman?
He told me all I knew about womanhood was what it felt like to get a period.
He said, "I can see your ribs and I can see in between them. I can see
that inside, you are not a real woman."
No curves, no tits to actually feel.
I don't have the body.
He had the most vulgar tone.
I could tell he was slurring his words; I could smell the whiskey through the phone.
He told me I didn't know what it was like to be terrified,
to be running down the street at two in the morning
by what seems like a dog chasing you,
with the drool hitting the god damn road.
I read in between the lines of that one and what i read was that
to be a real woman, you need to be raped.
You need to be completely oppressed, more than you already are.
He obviously doesn't know me like he thought.
I may not have hips
I may not fill out my clothes
or have the longest hair
or the prettiest face.
Heck, I look like a seven year old boy,
but I know more than getting my period.
I know how it feels to be chased down that streeet in the middle of the night,
half alive,
striving for the warmth of a safe home.
I don't understand why,
But I know more than I should.