Boy

This article was written by: Kathleen Hanna in the early 1990's in a zine.

Boy

i will never be a rockstar.
i will never be rich.
i can't take back my tenth birthday or the love i felt for you. there are no words for the hands that're running all up with a liars veins, voice, words moist, so moist i believed. i believed that my best friends wouldn't lie to me.
i will never be what the world wants me to be or have sex right. i will never open my door cuz in the eyes of the law it means i just spread open my legs and closed my eyes and said "c'mon in." and i will never explain this to anyone i like cuz it'll get used against me. the fact that i am not dead makes me an open target for murder. i swallowed your pride, i swallowed your heart, i swallowed your cum, guess that's all part of it. there's no justice and i'm really mad that people keep acting like there is. i don't want to be a girl eaten up by your world, how can i watch girls eaten up by your world? how come i get hit and no one sees it? how come, bloodied, i am explaining to the man who hit me what he has done? why am i taking care of him, why oh why do i still love him...?
if you took away this lipstick would i still have a mouth underneath? is it true i'm only crying because i'm afraid to go to sleep? i will never be rich, not cuz rich doesn't matter, but because i am crazy because i am full of hate... crazy means you don't give a damn what anyone thinks.
when i was little my parents sent me to charm school and ballet. i don't remember what recital it was fat-stomached and eight years old i was getting photographed in a bikini and a crown. now i'm crazy, fulfilling the american dream and being hated for it, they are just jealous. i don't care.
i am in protest against the whole world. my body says it, slung into my clothes. i won't stop talking, i'm a girl you have no control over. there is not a gag big enough to handle this mouth. i'm gonna tell everyone what you did to me. and sometimes i'll tell it dramatic and sometimes i'll blurt it out. and the hand you laid on my bare ass will be invisible as it spills right out of me. i will still bear the brunt of it, your smell. they will tell me i am inappropriate with their eyes. i'm not writing to please you, i'm not giving you a clean little hole to stick your dick in, a nice smooth arrangement.
pick me up, open me, put me down.
so sorry, i'm no hemingway, i'm writing for survival, my kind is being killed off, in fact i'm not even sure i exist. these words on this page mean something, if only that i was here and my fingers made this mess. i don't know luxury, what it is to be carefree. that was your fantasy, remember?