I just need to clear my mind now, its been racin' since the summer time

There is this theory that has surfaced, paraphrased below

"Male privilege is “I have a boyfriend” being the only thing that can actually stop someone from hitting on you because they respect another male-bodied person more than they respect your rejection/lack of interest."

As most things in our society, its much more complex than that.

Even still, a mixture of education and experiences have lead me to never using "I have a boyfriend" as an out when being hit on.


Because my boyfriend is in fact not the reason I wont take down your number.


Its because you told me you were too heterosexual to wear Nike high tops, and then waited for me to laugh.

Its because when describing your outfit, you used the word "wife beater".

When you told me to hit you up because you were only in town for two days, it wasn't my boyfriend holding me back.

My boyfriend had nothing to do with you forgetting my name.

And when you offered to take me to End Game and buy my drinks, it wasn't my boyfriend stopping me.
And my boyfriend didn't come to mind when I answered "Hard pass" dryly to your next suggestion of buying me lunch.

See because its not that I don't like Barcades, or drinks, or food even.
 I love food. Deeply.


Its because I have no interest in getting to know you.
And you are in no way entitled to chances as I am in no way obligated to give them.

Then leave without warning, so take me home

Something about this semester is very different.
As I walk the torn sidewalks, the school has changed almost as much as I have.
At eleven, two and in between I see reflections of myself four years ago.
Lost eyes pulled together in apprehensive discomfort, gleaning with confusion.
Eyes that don't know where to begin.
I walk slow, appreciating my remaining time while simultaneously comforting the pairs of eyes one by one.
Eyes that meet mine frustrated, scared and overwhelmed, and depart relieved, hopeful.


I don't have to look back four years to remember my own eyes mirroring theirs.
They are the same eyes that looked up at red brick buildings built in 1885.
They show the same confusion and fear, masked by excitement.
The same eyes that lead shaky hands to open the acceptance letter.
The same eyes that absorb every second of the people I love.
The places I love.


At the end of the day, I walk the path to my car slowly.
Telling myself someday those red brick buildings will be just as familiar.
Telling myself, there I will meet someone with the same helpful, friendly eyes.