We move but our words stand become responsible for more than we intended and this is verbal privilege

Sexist grammar burns into the brains of little girls and young women a message that the male is the norm, the standard, the central figure beside which we are all deviants, the marginal, the dependent variables. It lays the foundation for androcentric thinking, and leaves men safe in their solipsistic tunnel-vision.

It is the lesbian in us who is creative, for the dutiful daughter of the fathers in us is only a hack.

No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding, our animal passion rooted in the city.

In order to live a fully human life we require not only control of our bodies (though control is a prerequisite); we must touch the unity and resonance of our physicality, our bond with the natural order, the corporeal grounds of our intelligence.

If we had time and no money, living by our wits, what story would you tell?

A decade of cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing old scars ripped open over and over and still it is not enough.