(with apologies to Lana Del Rey. Trigger warning for misogynistic, transphobic violence)

when men open doors for me

yearning for my smile

and my lover cups my hips, pulling me to her

whispering “mine”

and

when my mother looked at my skirt and said “you’re not going out in that”

and my father said I was dead to him,

an embarrassment to the family

and they gave him a job instead of me,

and again, and again,

and when they spoke over me, boys and beards alike,

wrote their words and theories on my skin

called me hysterical, unreliable, psychotic,

and

the psychologist asked me what underwear I was wearing,

and the doctor told me to get undressed

while another refused to treat my impure body at all

and strange men pulled at my crotch and my breasts, groping, reaching, tearing,

or the taxi driver said I could pay with sex

and I ran like hell

stumbling in the darkness

wishing I’d worn flats

and their fists hit my chest, and my body crumpled

they call me slut, whore, cunt

and everyone blamed me, anyway.

And you, my sisters, you closed the doors to shelters

and my bruises healed alone

organised conferences and

wrote books

while my words went unheard

and you told me die tranny bitch

called yourself radical

and never once realised how much

you are like the men

you hate.