You’re a baby when they assign you a color, before even exiting the warm womb of our mothers.
You’re a child when you’re told to “man up” “don’t be such a girl” “act like a lady” so you know where your personality should be filed.
You’re a number, a young man, a little lady, a slut, pussy, bitch, whore, faggot, whatever term of endearment your peers decide to assign you when you enlist in your years of education and wonder.
You’re not a person, not yet. You make no decision, you have no say, but you bet your ass you’re expected to behave like the adult they’re not teaching you to be.
Can’t you see?
When we start to fear for our lives as we walk down a dark street, we’re becoming “women.”
When you start pressuring for sex and glorifying your conquests, you’re officially “a man.”
When we’re holding our keys in the palms of our hands like a weapon, you’re cracking open your first beer with your dad.
But don’t worry, not all men rape, but all women are asking for it.
Don’t worry, not all men know better, but they’ll tell you exactly why you’re always wrong.
Don’t worry, not all men.
Don’t worry, you’re just being a bitch.
Stop. Don’t. Yes. No. Words that pack a punch made of feathers. Nothing matters unless you know what lies underneath those zippers.
We don’t respect it unless it comes from him, we haven’t earned it if it comes from her.
He gets a dad bod, we get an eating disorder.
Him, her, not sure who you are? Doesn’t matter. Society puts you in the box you belong and you will climb out fighting for air just to jump out.
Scatter.
Run and search for answers you won’t find. Because those who matter don’t mind, right?
Wrong.
It’s always the ones that matter who mind.
-Anonymous