“I’m gonna kill all men.”
I said that at least three times Saturday night.
I scream about murder more often than what is probably acceptable, but I don’t mean it. I am not going to act on any of these words. I am not going to kill anyone. I am not even going to throw a punch.
But believe me when I say my teeth are bared.
To every man who has leered at me as I walk to class or work or the mailbox;
who has screamed “Fuck you, fat bitch!” at a friend of mine from car;
who has thrown a tantrum when presented with being “just friends” with a girl.
To the man who left my friends shaking, shivering, sobbing into my shoulder,
scared and confused and angry and destroyed after discovering a violent streak,
one that laid in wait before pouncing, our fragile trust scattered to the wind.
To every man who has stood by and laughed while his friend mimed jerking off
onto my group, who had just asked to be left alone while we were
taking care of a drunk, sick friend past midnight on a Saturday.
To every man who has followed a woman toward her home,
infringing upon the one place she is supposed to feel safe and
free from prying eyes, prying smirks and prying stares.
To every man who has ever hurt a sister of mine,
to every man who has ever hurt me,
I am a step away from violence.
I will hit back.
I will fight fire with fire.
You can bet your ass this is my battle cry.