I am a grrilla feminist.
You will see me at the club, wearing a tight skirt and dark lipstick.
And maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.
But then I will talk to you
about how men are so easy,
and how I can read your mind by your body language
And how all those stereotypes you’ve built in your head about swag and game and playas
is more about male fantasy than a woman’s susceptibility to bullshit
You will see me on the street,
Walking by in cutoffs and a really good bra
I’ll flip my sunglasses down to cover my eyes
You’ll ask me where I’m going
I’ll smile. You’ll smile back.
And then I’ll say, “to find a guy who isn’t looking at my breasts.”
And then
maybe
you will find yourself actually thinking
about what I am saying,
instead of what I am wearing.
You will whistle as I walk by
In my sundress that flows in the breeze
You’ll say something like “Ni hao mah, sweetheart!”
And I’ll actually stop and talk to you,
but only to ask “Does that ever work?”
You’ll remember my conversation and rant to your boys
But your rant will probably bring you ridicule
Because damn, actually, she might have a point there
There’s more than one way to skin a cat
And there’s more than one reason to draw a man in
I am here, in my tube top, and my smokey mascara eyes
Smashing your preconceived notions about sexuality with the stiletto heel of my strappy melanie
I am here, on the dance floor, gyrating to the beat
Dancing with you to make a point about a woman’s choice
And then leaving you high and dry
Because nothing will ever obligate me to give you access to my body
And consent is never implied by the silent rhythm of my hips.
I am a grrrilla feminist.
Riotous, enticing, sexy, unavoidably reasonable and unerringly on point.
I am not silent. I am not loud.
I am NOT what you expected.
