I’ve been over-apologizing since I first cried too hard in the birthing room. I’ll guess the doctor told me to be scene and not herd so I took that cue. Enter stage left: poorly dressed bad haircut- wearing young girl wailing.
To bad mom wanted a boy– Sorry, my skinned knees hurt. I learned to say god damn mother fucking bitch that shit hurts ooooooh. I’m hyper sensitive.
I’ve been falling down and making messes since I first refused dresses and pink. My favorite fucking color was blood red. Boldly emblazonedd with my super girl mud pies in the yard of our first trailer home- river in the back. I still remember the checkered face cat, Kitty Man, taught me how to hunt and listen to the universe. My sissy and I climbed into the recycling bin to read the Sunday comics before I knew how. Crossed the railroad tracks and faced one of many near death acts of society trying to MAKE ME pay attention and walk more delicately and focus and sit down and shut up. I dreamt of car accidents and the apocalypse. I always knew and no one ever listened.” I’m sorry. I’m trying to speak up and tell you that the end is near,” I’d say, in a language that even I don’t understand. I’m sorry I was born on the wrong planet where I made up stories that didn’t stay alive and drew pictures that bounced off as we changed fridge after fridge. I’m sorry, I never learned how to stay friends because I never had a friend long enough to try. I just had the radio, the mirror, my sister, and my imagination. Most of those things get out of hand. I’m trying to be better trying to make you smile. I’m trying to show I love you. I used to say, “I can be a real pain in the ass, but I always make up for it in gold dubloons of love”
WHY DO I HAVE TO MAKE UP FOR IT?
I’m NOT sorry. I’m different. I’m not sorry that I’m no longer sorry because goddamnit sorriness isn’t my color. I am red. I am purple. I am as green as life and its fine. I’m broken, and I’m also fine. Can you imagine? Sometimes I say nasty things and I’m not sorry because everyone sometimes says nasty things. I’m learning, but I’m not sorry.
This is not a poem and I’m not sorry for that either. I don’t need to be your baby, your beauty, your curled mustache, your Saturday Night Fever with a gold dress on. I don’t need your compliments or your cookies or awards. I don’t need to put on lipstick to be loved. I stopped for a long time to prove it to myself and now I feel free and me to put on lipstick for fun and twirl in dresses because it feels good rather than an order. And I’m not sorry about that either…..
All my life people have sucked up my rays of lazer love, bathe in the power of my tears, felt my army knife sharp, protective comebacks, and laughed– at my silly mind. They put me on the stage just to see what I’ll do next. Except I slipped and actually started giving a shit. Suddenly I care too much. Suddenly I see all the pain and mistakes of the world. I see the wrongs and I want to right them. I’m not sorry that I care about shit. I’m not sorry that I don’t spread my love around like warm nutella anymore. I’m not sorry.
truthfully I love myself the most. I’m not sorry I put up walls and bring in reinforcements and demand solidarity. I’m not sorry I push out these concepts like shit bricks on to your happy bliss. I’m not sorry that it feels uncomfortable, frankly, I’m uncomfortable too but thats life. Stop pretending period fairies exist and blood coming out of your vagina calls for a party. Put some cotton in there, swallow a pill, and move on. No one gives a fuck in the real world and I’m not sorry to break the news. We can cry on our pillows alone but we have to get up and face the day regardless.
I’m a feminist bitch. I’m a bitch that angry cries and lets the real shit slip. I’m a bitch that is willing to unclog the toilet, kill the mouse, and clomp around in boots in the middle of summer. I am a bitch that giggles. Fuck you. I giggle when it’s awkward. When you are awkward. When the clouds look weird. When I just feel silly. I’m a silly bitch, but a bitch nonetheless.
I won’t call you a bitch, but if I do, it’s a compliment forever more. I’m a bitch, yes, I accept.