This march isn’t for me.
I’m surrounded by generations of women inspired by suffragettes and supremacy. They are kept warm by pink crocheted cat ears and wave signs demanding equality. My pussy isn’t pink.
This march isn’t for me.
I’m surrounded by people new to protest; this their first demonstration. They call it a march, but no one moves. Overflowing streets, blocked traffic, but no urge to run.
There is no riot gear.
This march isn’t for me.
I’m surrounded by unfamiliar faces. They notice and smile. I search desperately for home.
It rings false with monochromy.
This march isn’t for me.
I’m surrounded by a sigh of relief when the crowd begins to thin. They pocket their pink pussies, assimilate, and free their faces of war paint.
There’s no makeup wipe for melanin.
The city of signs and shouts disappears.
I stand alone in the shadow of the White house, but
I’m surrounded.






















