boy...
I will never be a rockstar
I will never be rich
I can't take back my tenth birthday or the love I felt for you. There
are no words for the hands that're running all up with a liars veins,
voice, words moist, so moist I believed. I believed that my best friends
would lie to me.
I will never be what the world wants me to be or have sex right. I will
never open my door cuz in the eyes of the law it means I just spread
open my legs and closed my eyes and said "c'mon in" and I will never
explain this to anyone I like cuz it'll just get used against me. The fact
that I'm not dead makes me an open target for murder. I swallowed your
pride, I swallowed your heart, I swallowed your cum, I guess that's all
part of it. There's no justice and I'm really mad that people keep
acting like there is. I don't want to be a girl eaten up by your world,
how can I watch girls eaten up by your world? How come I get hit and no
one sees it? How come, bloodied, I'm explaining to the man who hit me
what he has done? Why am I taking care of him, why oh why do I still
love him...?
If you took away the lipstick would I still have a mouth underneath?
Is it true I'm only crying because I'm afraid to go to sleep? I will
never be rich, not cuz rich doesn't matter, but because I'm crazy
because I'm full of hate...crazy means you don't give a damn what
anyone thinks.
When I was little my parents sent me to charm school and ballet. I
don't remember what recital it was fat-stomached and eight years old
I was getting photographed in a bikini and a crown. Now I'm crazy,
fufilling the american dream and being hated for it, they are jealous.
I don't care.
I am in proteset against the whole world. My body says it, slung into
my clothes. I won't stop talking, I'm a girl you have no control over.
There is not a gag big enough to handle this mouth. I'm gonna tell
everyone what you did to me. And sometimes I'll tell it dramatic and
sometimes I'll blurt it out. And the hand you laid on my bare ass
will be invisible as it spills right out of me. I will still bear the
brunt of it, your smell. They will tell me I'm inappropriate with their
eyes. I'm not writing to please you, I'm not giving you a clean little
hole to stick your dick in, a nice smooth arrangement.
Pick me up, open me, put me down.
So sorry, I'm no hemingway, I'm writing for survival, my kind is being
killed off, in fact I'm not ever sure I exist. These words on this page
mean something, if only that I was here and my fingers made this mess,
I don't know luxury, what is it to be carefree.
That was your fantasy remember?
by Kathleen Hanna.
thanks for rem(i/e)nding me.
