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I am That Woman.

I’m at a market with my sister
I pick up a necklace
With Frida Kahlo’s face on it.
I put it back on the display wrong
My sister turns to me, smiling, and asks:
“What are you doing?”
“Destroying the joint,” I reply,
“I’ve been warned about women like you,”
She says, still smiling.

I am That Woman.

It’s hot. I’m in a line
Waiting for a ride
At an amusement park in Holland.
A child in front of me turns to his friend,
He’s restless and excited,
His face aglow with illicit glee,
He’s speaking German and pointing
At the dark, plentiful hair he sees
Peeking out from underneath my arms.

I am That Woman.

Each morning I paint on my face
So I can go unremarked upon in the world.
I put on a costume, one that says:
“Nothing to see here.”
I conform to your gender stereotypes
To your standards of beauty
Yet a man at a tram stop tells me
“Your features are all wrong.”

I am That Woman.

And sometimes I don’t want to be
Wish I didn’t have to be.
I want to bare my chest on a beach
I want to earn as much as the next man
I want to grow old disgracefully
And have worth beyond my fuckability.
I want to come home to a man
Who will love me because of,
Not in spite of, the fact

I am That Woman.