Two Holes and a Heavier Chest

(Note: This is my 1st attempt at what I hope will become a slam poem. The spacing is weird because it's written to be read aloud with pauses and emphasis on certain words.)

Now I don’t know much about anything at all

but I can recognize a bad feeling when it sneaks past
my ribcage and infects my gut.
I can identify hurtful words and tactless intentions
when they fall flat before my face
and obstruct the view I once knew as a little girl.
A little girl with grass-stained knees and a set of
dreams so solid that not
a bomb
a bruise
a broken heart
or a bit of fiction (in the form of a sexist opinion)
Could break them.
I used to want to be the President.
Then I was hit with a dose of reality defined as (a)
Growing Up.
I went to the bathroom one day and found two extra
holes that would prevent me from Presidency.
Two extra holes wedged in between a difference
That makes me different in a dire way.

Now I don’t know much about anything at all

But two holes and a heavier chest shouldn’t define the
word success
And
If this combination is supposed to mean dinner on the
table by 6PM
Followed by where the fucks the milk and a thank you
that’s left unsaid
I must be mistaken
because I can’t fry an egg to save my life
and if we’re talking about bacon I’m bringing it home.

Now I don’t know much about anything at all

But I have a heart the size of a fist with a capacity
to endure the pain of
PMS
Pregnancy
and three miles in a pair of pumps.
And if that doesn’t qualify as over-qualified I’m
confused.
I can write
and read
and think
and dream
And I can sell more products than Mscintosh
If I simply take off my shirt and smile at the camera
Because society said women and sex are
indistinguishable
And society said if I dare to feel anything other than
bad after an innocent act of passion
I’m a slut
I’m a whore
I’m two holes and a slightly heavier chest
Although I’ve got A’s and we all know what society
said about A’s:
They don’t go well with string bikinis.

So please excuse me because
The President can’t find the fucking milk and he
really needs a blowjob
Which is my job.
I used to want to BE the President.
Until I was hit with a dose of reality defined as (a)
Growing Up.

Now I don’t know much about anything at all

but I can recognize a lie when it sneaks past my
ribcage and infects my gut
And society’s told quite a few.