“Prove it to me. Prove your life experiences and your insight is real. And if I’m not convinced, it didn’t happen and it’s all in your head and you’re wrong.”
She asked me to cut myself open, she asked me to explain, nicely why I asked to her back the hell up and get her foot of my neck, not how she could, but how, I could demand that her foot was indeed on my neck.
I stared at the wall of text, representing a liberal education that proved her point, well, if you don’t have the words, then clearly you are wrong.
She demanded, she hungered, wanted to see my pain, she asked for statistics when she knows full well that people like me don’t get counted, while she chose to believe that everyone who really suffered, as noted by sex work, by hiv, by suicide couldn’t possibly be like me, like my history, my people where an invention of some 90’s privileged queers, that no street queen ever suffered because they didn’t even have the words.
Not because I can’t, but because I am too tired, and you my dear, have made up your mind.