#working class values

stop assuming that when we take care of ourselves we're brainwashed fools who don't know better cause we’re not using fourth-year women’s studies language or trying to fit into white liberal ideas of feminism and empowerment 

stop shitting on working class feminine people who wear high heels and go to the club and shake our asses because fuck you the world shits on us enough. 

if something makes me feel good for a little while then I’m going to fucking do it cause as a poor femme of colour there is precious little in the world that’s done for me. sometimes, most times, I have to do it for myself.

there are days when I've had to drag myself out of bed and worn earrings and cute shoes like talismans against the suicidal ideation and the sadness and the anxiety, let the shine keep me going long enough so I can collapse at the end of the day and start all over again tomorrow

cause yeah nobody’s hiring and my last three lunches have been two cigarettes in the freezing cold but at least my eyeliner’s on point and my lipstick looks good on those scattered cigarette butts by the snow and for now that’s enough to keep me upright

every goddamned day I have to survive in a world that says I'm ugly and useless and sick and wrong. everyday I have to remind myself that even in a world that wants me to fail I am full of worth and strength and wisdom, bravery and love that sings out loud and beautiful and help me see joy in others. in butches and bois, studs and femmes and genderqueer rockstars, trans folk who've always created community and black and brown boys with sweet faces who grow up too fast. those of us who are ugly and dark and hairy and fat and proud of all of it, those of us with disabilities and crazy. those of us with bodies that we have fought so hard to love and celebrate and see as desirable, those of us who are trying to get there and all of us who are broke as shit but still learn to keep going using our short skirts and suspenders, bow ties and hijabs, and the million other things that become small patches of sunshine

us poor queer sick people of all colours and genders and presentations, we create fucking magic every day and we don't do it for your revolution, for your movement. we do it for ourselves and, most importantly, for each other. we have too much shit to do to worry about how we fit into middle-class academic theory. we have too many people to love to fit into your model of activism. our lives, our survival, our communities and families are what revolutions are made of and we fucking know it.

We don’t exist for you and