Pure Misogyny in a Dollar Store Disguise.

Personally, I find one of the most hauntingly sick images of misogyny to be the women who proudly proclaim they aren't like most women and don't like/get along with other women. Not only do statements like this place women into a mass generalization of sameness, but it implies as a sex we are something negative (as in, if we were something valued, why would a woman, someone of our own kind, want to distance herself from identifying with us?). What do statements like that even mean? Some women watch NFL on Sundays, some go shopping with their children, some of us kiss men, some of us kiss women, some of us wear eyeliner, some of don't shave a single hair on our bodies. One can not rightfully claim that she does not act like a woman because women do not adhere to some defined list of actions and behaviors.

These women are not rare anomalies. They are perpetrators of misogyny and causalities to the vast destruction of preconceived gender norms. 

I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend.

When men proclaim that their ex-girlfriend was "crazy" or "psycho" what they oftentimes ought to be saying is that the woman had emotional, mental, or physical needs he was either unprepared or unwilling to grant her. Perhaps she cried when he touched her a certain way, or got a little paranoid eating junk food in front of him, or always liked to know when he was on his way home from his dangerous job in a city known for its gang activity. Maybe she preferred kisses and cuddles over sex, maybe the thought of taking a shower alone sans shower sex seemed foreign to her. Regardless, the fact that a woman has musts outside of some sick undemanding agreement concocted by some jerk of a man, does not make a woman "crazy" or "psycho." It makes her a human being, and part of that human package includes emotions, life experience, and flaws. On the other hand, defining any behavior inconvenient to him as insane does make a man a complete imbecile.

To all the women who fancy themselves so stable, so ideal, so unlike that dreaded ex your partner speaks of, you're not so special. For when a man prefaces your worthiness with statements like "Most women are crazy/psychotic, but..." what they are saying is that they have already placed the entirety of womankind into a generalized category of insanity. You are no exception for you too will do something outside of his pleasant agreement. You too will be cast aside as mad.

This is beauty.

Within an isolated pond, beryl algae emerges like a mother tortoise from her shell as the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. The honesty of wilting flower, her dying children: She doesn't mind that yes, we will remember her like this, not the graceful delight she once was. Or perhaps, the sole flaw in your award winning tomato garden, a stubborn weed, that just won't go away, no matter how hard you stab, regardless of the basin of Swedish fertilizer pooling at it's feet

What is beauty?

Guilt churns like Amish butter atop your molars leaving you jumpy with each ring of the telephone.
Wet, his skin glows with a majestic luster from the constant stream of creativity seeping from his pores.
The chatter of children's teeth and cascades of snow serve as the only trophy for the aggressive weather.
Proclaiming her strength, a steady stream of sweat that belongs to anyone but herself, runs across the overexposed spine of a newly formed warrior. Years later, she stands bare and vulnerable, waves of hair crash upon the ocean that is her back, presenting herself to you, she offers an honest invitation to open the door and forever change her.

What is beauty?

Overly excited, all too eager, you've felt the feeling before, cherries ooze out of the top of a pie crust.
Whereas a utopia flourishes between the lips of two lovers you are left to believe that upon taking a hammer to your skull, all your ideas and fantasies would pour right out, purer and cleaner than water. No blood, no science, no worries. Across town, in his porcelain padded room he closes his eyes, a cloudy image forms between his bitter eye and its lid. Her memory is fading, but her radiance remains like the eternity of two mirrors facing each other.

Hark! Could it be? 

Beauty.

I am looking at you.

I am looking at you who 

snickers at the Subway employee, who happens to be female, as she makes your sandwich

in your Two in the Shirt (T.I.T.S) brand t-shirt.

You, the white teen who greets his friends with the N-word

only to proudly chant "I raped you, faggot" upon winning a series of video games to dehumanize your heterosexual buddies

who's eHarmony profile declares him a "quality guy."

He's just grown tired of being "friend-zoned," because sexless relationships with women are just oh so meaningless.

To all the men who bubbled in yes to the following questions

Are women obligated to shave their legs?

Do some women asked to be raped?

Is it okay to have sexual intercourse with a woman under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol?

Would you "force a women" into having sex with you?

I am looking at you.

To every man who responds to the fact that one third of the planet's female population will be raped in her lifetime by declaring that the statistics are mere lies, and the wage gap a myth.

To the men who believe the "pimpwalk" was a clever response to Slutwalk, a protest aimed at deconstructing victim blaming.

To the men who declare rape "surprise sex."

To all those who equate believing in the value of your gender to invading Poland by dismissing all self-proclaimed feminists as "feminazis"

To all the men who have banded together to play the collective role of the devil's advocate in response to a young woman's Facebook status concerning domestic violence

To every boy

guy

man

who has dismissed feminism because it "doesn't involve him"

To every boy 

guy 

man

who has ever

beaten

raped

dehumanized

a girl

gal

woman

To every male who justifies his behavior by declaring it's all just a joke, or that he isn't like that dude

To every boy

guy 

man

who is genuinely confused why feminists are 

angered 

upset

enraged

you're part of a culture

that perpetually chokes us 

girls

gals

women

but tells us 

to just breathe.

How it feels to be her.

Sorrowful, self-loathing, suicidal lyrics swirl together like the soy protein myths she slurps on weekends, creating the lengthiest most extravagant mix-tape known to this realm. Scratched with the most horrifyingly painful migraine, they weigh down the brain people repeatedly try to convince her exists.

Jointly, they grow frightened inside their jail-like rooms as the predictability of the surrounding faces begins to suffocate them. She keeps hoping a new one will appear among them, but it is yet to emerge, just a dreary cascade of the same regressive faces bonded with the same regressive beliefs.

Running for a moribund organization, she finds her sprints cluttered with visions of weed killers and fertilizers. Wilting petals, participants die off on this struggling flower of a dictatorship. Shackles at her feet, she wonders can they tell, can anybody tell? This weight, this memory, has built a brick wall around a heavily charred exterior. Chisel away, but the mortar remains like volcanic ash: gray, wet, deadly.

Her showers are hot and not always alone as memories and regret enter the crime scene, regardless of the fact that the lock remains. Like school children at recess, they taunt her as she stands shivering in her most vulnerable state. As if an instant replay, the pictures they paint of that summer day are so vivid, she can feel that rat in the faded blue t-shirt. A blaring I-pod hides screams of terror, but only impregnates fear. No matter how hard she scrubs she never comes clean. He tells her she's dirty and she's yet to prove him wrong.

Afternoon churns like Amish butter into evening as she lays in something familiarly burning. The hands of a monster who doesn't glue her with labels when crimson drips like a broken faucet from the rivers of her scarcely dressed body or pours from the ocean of my mouth draped about her like curtains.

So you tell me, what is life without a steady stream of death's kisses?