Wallpaper

There are two girls here and I am one of them.

The other one is discussing the stupidity of feminism with her hands, 

with an uncomfortable rhythm that leaves me in dread.

She is surrounded by a sea of jerseys

and red solo cups and me. 

They ogle at her mouth like its a pipe 

congested with too many thoughts.

I feel sorry for her and do not speak. 

I want to get up, but, 

whose quiet voice will they prop their feet on? 

I want to get up, but, 

what if someone steals my seat? 

I want to leave, but, 

what if everyone notices I haven’t talked the entire time? 

There are days, nights like these, 

I prefer likability over changing the world. 

There are times I forget I own mace disguised as lipstick 

and pretend I’m not scared to walk home. 

Once, I told a boy I was strong 

and he told me to mind my own business.

He asked if I thought I could rule the world 

and I replied no, I only want to see it. 

I need to know it is there for someone. 

We tolerate this perpetual unease

as a component of being a girl. 

You could cut a girl in half with a saw

and it’s a magic trick. 

That’s why they invite us here, right? 

Because there is no show without the help of a good-looking girl?

We are the daughters 

of men who warned us about the 11 o’clock news 

or the thousands of missing girls on sidewalks

and the sharp brink of the world. 

They beg us to be careful and to be aware and to be safe.

Right after, then tell our brothers to go outside and play.