pretender

to you -

reading Virginia Woolf for fun,

buying "Destroy the Patriarchy Not the Planet" stickers in public -

your feminist-you is nothing but a drop of honey

in the desert of your insecurities,

not big enough to change the tides,

nothing but red lipstick to resemble your heroines.

Or why do you keep quiet in moments of uncertainty?

Endure the hand on your back, that's lingering too long?

The words on the street, that sting like little hornets, frightening?

Push the first move towards him, because writing first feels "pushy"?

to you, pretender:

pleaseee speak up next time