Biology says I'm weeks away from menopause
but I've always had an aversion to uncomfortable truths
so I walk around with the angst of teenage drama.
My father's lack of teeth is what I build my feminist out of
but I never forget to use his surname,
you see I come from a long lineage of caste supremacy and an inherent sense of superiority for simply existing,
and that's not a vice you can do away with; take away illusion and what is a magician left with?
I bleed every month for the dying and the decaying in Gaza,
and I sell my support for Umar Khalid,
like that's all it takes to be called a revolutionary,
but every time the country of Umar Khalid and of me, bleeds,
I forget my words, because I can't afford to lose my teeth,
because how does a snake continue to be a snake without its fangs?
I use my dysfunctional family as puppets to further my paper propaganda,
and I chew my words, enunciating them with enough conviction
so no one dares question my intellect.
I don't have a spine so I offer unsolicited advice as a guise to latch my parasitic intentions on to,
and before you realise, I would have crept so far up your ribs,
you'd have to asphyxiate yourself to get rid of me.
Penises are my choice of scapegoats,
I sever them, at the very first chance I get,
because butchery is all I really have, in the name of art.
And, art is the dildo
I orgasm my casteist conscience to, every night, in the warmth of my cold bed.
I only flock myself with women two-thirds my age or younger,
because the ones my age wake up to real-life consequences,
and I am rather allergic to anything that questions the imagined Renaissance I'm the Michelangelo and the Da Vinci of.
Either them, or the men who've absolved themselves of their Y-chromosomes,
the ones who have wrung themselves dry of the last traces of testosterone, and I'm the only one reeking of it
because in a congregation of flaccid penises, my clitoris becomes the only permissible erection,
and that's how I like my feminism.
I breathe carbon monoxide into falsified vendettas,
because it's twice the convenience;
it rids any spine with a penis I couldn't rid in person,
and I am never cutting losses if and when the tables turn.
Call me whatever you like —
activist, artist, intellectual, revolutionary.
Just don't call me honest.
I have spent a lifetime
mistaking manufactured applause for a mirror.
