‘Hey, does my bum look big in this?’ [S]he queried, to [he]r mind perfectly innocently. Although what s[he] was in fact saying was, please tell me I’m beautiful. Please confirm my sense of self worth, it’s feeling a little shaky.
‘Why, yes it does, my sweetheart. Positively monumental.’ [S]he heard in reply. Although the answer as rendered was more along the lines of, ‘yeah, you look fine.’
That was [he]r internal messaging translation device. On the Fritz as usual.
‘Um….thanks.’ S[he] replied slightly disconsolately before remembering her pride.
That’s the infection speaking. The poison. That’s men who can’t keep their hands and their fists to themselves saying look what you made me do. That’s other people’s fear turned into hate and put on you.
Rise above. Don’t let them take everything away. Don’t let them smother you in their insecurity.
‘Don’t let them win.’ S[he] said half out loud to h[er]self.
‘What’s that?’ [S]he heard called from the next room, in reply to [h]er mutterance.
‘Oh….nothing. Hey, whaddayathink of my hair like this?’
‘Yeah. Whatev’s, princess. Are you ready to go yet?’
‘Yeah. Let’s go.’ S[he] chuckled, finding her defiance once more. Smiling to h[er]self at the the prospect of committing the subversive act that was existing queer.
A queen. Adjusting the crown of deviance which the people had placed upon [he]r brow. The revolutionary act of refusing to conform putting a revolutionary gleam in [he]r eye.
[S]he finally adding, ‘come on, let’s get riotous.’ Thinking as a footnote, as if we have a choice.
And hand in hand they marched out into a hostile world. Every article of clothing and item of rainbow adornment, from plaid lumberjane shirt to lace-up boots necessarily screaming.
Oh yeah? Well fuck you too.