MY NAME IS LJ

I’m at the grocery store. 

I’m out to lunch.

I’m at the gym.

I’m at work.

I’m at a bar.

By myself.

With my four-year-old cousin.

With my friends.

With my brother.

And, what do I get?

How’s it going, Beautiful?

What can I do for you, Hon?

Hiya, Darling. Doll. Sweetie. Sweetheart.

I don’t answer.

That is not my name.

Regardless,

you sound like a black-and-white villain

from the 20s,

complete with a handlebar moustache,

pinstriped suit and top hat,

ready to tie me down

to the conveniently located

railroad tracks over yonder.

You ask again.

What’s wrong, Sugar?

Hey, Sexy. Angel. Honey. Baby. Babe.

I don’t respond,

because that is not my name.

Then, I get:

Hey, girl!

What’s this chick’s problem, huh?

Skank! Bitch! Cunt!

And out comes the rope again.

But you can’t contain me.

Because that is NOT my name.

How would you like it

if I went around addressing you as

“Hey boy!”, despite the fact

you are a person who, by being human,

inherently deserves respect?

If you wanted to know my name,

all you had to do was ask.

It’s Lj. Holy Jesus—

MY NAME IS LJ.