To Terfs, With Love
It is not your breasts that make you a woman
But the heart that lies behind your ribs
Pounding with life and vigor
And, ultimately, love.
It is not the blood between your legs that makes you a woman
But the blood in your veins,
Carrying the power of your ancestors,
And their heritage of strength.
It is not your pain that makes you a woman
A concept like that cannot based on suffering,
But your happiness and life
A life not only made of misery, no matter what they may say.
Women, fearfully and wonderfully made
If not by a god then by the universe
If not by the universe then by her own realization
Without thought for your thin definitions.
“What is a woman?”
Fine, then what is life? What is God?
Define for me euphoria, grief, and hope.
You sputter, with drugstore lipstick
(I’m sorry, but it’s true)
“I know it when I feel it”
I can only assume she does too.