Grating gears grinding on and on
Forever fond of a motion.
Tirelessly turning with an ancient archaic anachronistic outmoded and beholden still, still wishes, for the whirling world with the beholden golden garden,
walden and the pond we’ve
hardened-
Pernicious: cast judgement through the extra judicious, since we do not trust, thus, you must try and fix us.
These are our sisters.
These are our friends.
These are women.
These are not hashtags.
These are not headlines.
These are not numbers contributing to a systematic probability that if you do not identify with the gender you were assigned at birth, you will probably be murdered for it.
I’m walking onto the bus same as every day and everyone is looking at me same as everyday and I feel really fucking uncomfortable-
same as everyday.
The probability that my death will not be randomly selected, and autonomously directed,
But rather a collectively selected reflection of a judgement-
In their deaths they hold a mirror up and you all see the words “you did this” scrawled across in the desperate handwriting of someone’s stilted last words, and when she dies the mirror drops,
Shatters,
And you sweep up the message lying in the broken glass on the floor.
By Andie Simpson
Featured in Basement Babes, Issue 12