To the boy who called me frigid:
Sexuality is a fluid thing. It is not a competition.
It is not a race. You may be ready. You may be
making a wooden house amongst the tree tops
whilst I stay lingering at the roots, uncertain.
This does not mean you can belittle me for your own
sexual gratification. This is not my fault.
To the friend who put his arm around me
without my consent: Stop. Stop. Stop.
Do not test me.
My trust does not bend, it only snaps.
I am not your experiment.
I do not owe you my mind, my body, my attention.
Don’t try and hold my hand.
I would rather kiss a frog than you.
Consent requires a firm yes.
That word never left my lips.
To the man who sat too close on the bus:
Don’t ask me how my day has been.
I have the sharpest of claws. Watch me use them.
Every time I heard a car honk on the street I
used to feel like a piece of rubbish to discard.
So violated and small.
Now I rise like a phoenix above the cat calls.
Next time someone makes an unwanted advance,
I will collect the wolf whistles, the arm pinches,
the unwelcome stares,
use them as fuel to gather the gasoline,
douse it all over you,
and set it alight.
Meg Cabot (via fictionwritingtips)