Screenshot 2018-08-05 at 8.51.30 PM

Check out my poem “To The Shitty White Hipster Boy,” republished in Rag Queen Periodical.

To the shitty white hipster boy who didn’t understand why I sent him a screenshot of the Wikipedia page for manic pixie dream girl, but instead managed to make the conversation about himself, yet again:

[Previously published in The Broke Bohemian]

I did not mean to imply you were a “broodingly soulful young man.” I meant that I feel like you treat me like an ornament in your house, only here as decoration, only here to further your own story, rather than recognizing I am a forest fire that has already been lit, that I exist outside of you, that I am too big for your house and there is no making me smaller. I cannot be squeezed into an inconceivably small corset that somehow makes you feel better about yourself. I am the spider and the cobweb. I have spun my own web and I do not subsist to teach you to spin yours. I am not a flashlight; you cannot use me to guide you out of your cave. Everyone has darkness inside them and I do not occur merely to show you the exit to yours, especially when I am still searching for an escape from the parts of myself that the light doesn’t reach. I will not be your radiator, I am not here to introduce you to what it’s like to be warm. I am a stick of dynamite and I am not asking you to strike the match. I prevail outside of your depression and I do not want to be made to fit into it with you. My sisters and I, we are humongous. We cannot be made to exist only in houses, when we are already oceans and rainforests. I am tired of being treated like an occupant in your life who is expected to live out of a suitcase and not disturb your sad shack of an existence with its poor lighting and moldy carpet. I have my own damn house that I built with my two good hands, hands forged in the histories of Artemis and Aphrodite and Athena. I am not clay to be molded so that I fit into how you see the world. I am the stone that Michelangelo carved, I am the lioness prowling the Sahara, I exist in my own habitat that is far greater than anything you’ve ever built. I have no interest in fitting into your house when I can live in the rest of the world. I exist outside of your sad story and I swear to the goddesses, if you try to make me into “that bubbly, shallow cinematic creature” that I was so desperately trying to make you aware of, I will explode and take you down with me. I exist. Let me exist.

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