When you say I play the victim card,
you show me your whole hand: show that,
like all bullies, you see victim status
as a weapon you can wield to further torment.
When you say 'Bitch, get stronger!'
you tell me you envy our strength.
Bitch, even weakened by oestrogen,
I could snap you with just one shrug of my arm:
but such muscle as I muster is
the least strength that is in me.
You, sybaritic, sycophant-surrounded,
cry victim when a segment gets deleted,
when your network bars your lips
from hurling slurs that you have no right
to reclaim. I have no entourage.
I walk and work alone, and draw the world's eyes
to the victimhood of those who
suffer far worse than I do:
on the streets, on benefits,
doing the work of survival
at the end of phonelines,
looking into webcams,
in flats rented from landlords who,
they hope, won't pry; in prison,
military, immigration or civilian,
adult jail before they'll have the right
to buy a drink without the chance
of being carded. Suck mimosa
through your straw and tell me what
Jane Doe or Chelsea Manning, Fallon Fox or Chloie Jonsson,
have to do to get as strong as your
strung-out and skinny ass?
We're waiting. Well, we were:
we'll wait no longer.
Next time you think about throwing out slurs,
bit- no. NO slurs. Be better. Be STRONGER.
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