Don’t Call Me That

I don’t like it, when a woman calls me this.

It belittles both of us.

Not a term of endearment at all.

You could call me your ‘friend’ or ‘buddy’.

No need to embarrass yourself, for I will call you out on it.

I’m not trying to be mean.

I’m trying to teach you something.

Sometimes people just need to learn the hard way.

Fag Hag

I fucking hate that term.

“but I had a friend in college, who was cool with it”

“I hear it all the time on television”

“I just think you are so cool”

Well thank you.

But stop.

Because unless you think it’s cool calling yourself something I think is ‘ugly’ then by all means

You carry your haggard wayward ways from seaport to seaport on that journey through wretched stigmas.

I am not a bundle of sticks.

I am not a Brittish term for a cigarette.

Even though I do giggle at the word ‘pouff’.

Don’t call me that either.

I am not a faggot.

I am not a derogatory term, that still sends shivers down my spine, when I’m called a faggot on the streets.

My body goes tense, when a John, calls me his ‘dirty little faggot’ as he forgets his wife, children, cottage on the Island and his secret ‘squirt.org’ account.

A word that’s heard to countless queer people as they are bullied, ridiculed, tortured, beaten, pushed off of rooves stoned to death, and murdered.

Don’t call me a faggot.

For I am not a bundle of sticks, or a smoke, or a pet name in bed.

I am a powerful ass-kicking diva.

And my pink sunglasses block out all forms of glares.

My earbuds play music that invigorate my soul to hold my head up high, and stride with pride with each step.

And to avoid the words that silly little ‘bundles of ignorance’ shout my way on Queen Street.

Don’t call yourself a Hag.

Because you are beautiful, and far from ugly.

Love me and call me by my name.

And I’ll honour our kinship, and call you by yours.

Chi miigwetch.

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