SKIRT STEAK GIRLS The only girl in a handful of backseat boys, I sit shotgun without calling it. The song pounding through the radio says Bitch every Bitch other Bitch word. One boy assures me I am not like other girls. Out of habit, I thank him for the compliment. I listen to them speak of women like menus; medium-rare lace skirt trimmed steak. I cross my legs and neatly fold my voice into a teal blue Tiffany’s box. This is the part where I prove that I am chill. I can hang, guys. Who says feminists are a buzzkill? As we turn the corner, there is a gaggle of young women. The driver of the car I am in leans out the window and spits How much? Eyes wide as dinner plates, they scurry away like shot pool balls, as I have done so many times. The whole van hoots, fist-bumps, hollers. There are not enough seats for both a woman and the joke to fit comfortably in the car. I keep my rant about feminism and rape culture as a ponytail holder around my wrist. In a fish tank of predators, I wonder if I, too, am a predator by association. When I get the courage to say something, I am two weeks late and encouraged by Bacardi. I start by assuring him that he is a Good Person, which is why I’m telling him this in the first place. I have to make this matter to him. I have to bring up his sister, his mother, his girlfriend- I have to make this somehow relate back to him. It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to inform the sexist, politely. It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to be heard- Let us give you this reality check with a spoonful of sugar. Let us make this easier for you to hear than it is for us to live.

SKIRT STEAK GIRLS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

#reblog #poetry #reality check