my brand of feminism is riddled with misogyny

everything is laughter and foreplay until i suddenly remember how much i hate the way my voice sounds
and my fucking laugh
and i want to get my chin reshaped
and my nose
and i have split ends
and i need collagen in my top lip
and just as i'm thinking that i hate my body
you tell me i'm beautiful.
i try to smile but i mostly just wince
and i know
what a privilege it is
to look in the mirror and see the only thing standing in my way
and whine about it in my blog.

on April 20th it said: tell us about the last person who hurt you

And where shall I begin?
With the cruelty of his grin or the anger in his elbows?
Or our hundred million sorrows?
The faults that weigh his shoulders down?

Or tell you where my mind is now -
the sweetness in his lying eyes,
the painful gaps between troubled sighs,
the guilty gasps between her thighs,
the dissonance of our demise.

My mind constructs our arguments,
reiterates the same laments, retaliates with force enough
to block out our destructive love.