Dear Mr. Intersectional Feminist,

Dear Mr.Intersectional Feminist,

Let me be the first to tell you that

Your title is both redundant and ill-placed.

You are not a feminist.

You are a fem-minimizer

That reduces women, like me,

to fit his own agenda.

You mistook me for anecdote

But I ain’t your story to tell.

Your sight be too narrow

To capture my vision well.

Your touch be too rough

To handle my delicate details.

Your nose be too erect

To sniff out the nuances of this Southern Belle.

Your mind be too woke

To read me correct.

You mistook me for a textbook

But I ain’t you subject to study.

My spine be too sharp

For you—to soften with problematic praise.

My spirit be too Resilient

For you—to ever breach

My trauma be too complex

For you—to mansplain through the male gaze.

My mental be crippled by PTSD

from past tragedy.

I can’t push it aside with the Nevermind.

Your speech coated by bullshit

From present insensitivity.

You point out my scars as a pastime.

I mistook you for an ally and a friend.

But you are a trigger breathing dragon

You Ready, Aim, and Speak fire,

Burning through my boundaries

Without permission,

Without trigger warnings.

With your jaws open wide,

Always prepared for my next slaughter.

Hell, I Remember When you said

“My name is Rahteesha, and I fucked my grandfather.”

The memory played through my brain

Like broken record on repeat.

Your joke cut me so deep

my heart skipped a beat

And for four months, I cried myself to sleep,

Asking God “Why me?”

You wanted me to be like Elsa

and Let It Go.

But you didn’t know

That my childhood wasn’t

as pure as the ice queen’s snow.

But you didn’t know

That my grandfather was a wrecking ball

bulldozing through this body’s Garden of Eden, destroying my innocence.

Your excuse was ignorance.

I call bullshit!

These sacred truths

Were shared with you

Before that disgusting joke was spewn.

You reclassified my hidden blues

As publicly and comedically

Distributed news.

That’s it!

I am done with you.