The hands I used to hold so proudly
Became the very weapons he used against me.
The joys of dating a man
I could only pretend to enjoy it so far.
Weeks of being only an object,
One for him to rip apart and shove together,
A doll taped and stitched into a contorted frame.
As only a man does, he took me apart,
Tested me, persuaded me,
Took my body, and made it his own.
Like a predator he waited -
Waited to get me alone.
After weeks of reminders of what he wanted to do to me,
What I stupidly agreed with,
It happened in a parking garage.
I, an idiot, followed him, even encouraged him.
My soul withered as my body became evidence.
As a stupid lesbian in denial,
I laid as a doormat for a man.
I feel as if my skin was torn away,
And my stomach regurgitated itself out of my throat,
Plugging my screams.
The smile, giggles, encouragement,
All to prove to myself that maybe
I wasn't just a man-hating ****
The views ****** upon me needed to work.
I just did everything to make them fit.
The cycle repeated;
Video calls, dates, messages,
Pictures, poems, drawings.
I was in a relationship with a man,
Worse than any hell.
I was not living,
But just performing for some sick boy,
One raised by a system who told him he could be anything,
And that I could only be a servant of men.
I have learned that some roles aren't worth playing.
Max
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 3:09 AM UTC
What is so wrong with me that I must ****** myself into these situations?
Ones where I snag fishing hooks to the ends of my mouth,
Forcefully pulling it into a performative smile for the comfort of others.
Giving into every whim and demand they ask of me,
All so I won't be alone in my thoughts, and broken beyond comprehension.
As the hooks begin to tear and the tears begin to shed, I regret.
I do not want to smile anymore, though I do not want to be alone.
I begin pulling at the shreds of my remaining flesh upon my face,
Trying to configure it to be positive, to show no pain in my expression.
But the pain is unbearable, my face falls in chunks on the floor,
Revealing me, a disgusting monster puppeting this human form.
Still unable to shake the dread, and having to pin up a smile for others.
The situations never leave me, and the scars of my reconfiguration remain.
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:55 AM UTC
Wandering around the market,
Full of nothing and lacking
The kind of humanity I used to have.
My eye caught by the red-pink
Of the raw meat in a glass case.
I found myself staring at it,
Almost a familiar sight.
Thinking nothing of it at all,
I continued staring.
Something about it stuck to me.
The way the white fat ran through
Pink and red muscle tissue.
The big areas of redness struck me,
Slightly jagged and misshapen.
And juice pooling under it.
The animal was given no thought,
Not other than how it served people.
Its body parts were nothing more than dishes,
Ones for the pleasure of the strong to eat.
There were no animals in this market.
Here laid the former cows,
Their parts separated and sorted.
How convenient to be on display,
To be freshly cleaned and wrapped.
No pieces flawed or ruined.
Oh to be a slab of meat,
Nothing of your former self,
Born to die to feed people,
Or thrown out once you've gone bad.
I suppose I am not far from it.
May 16, 2025
May 16, 2025 at 9:23 PM UTC
How can they say what MY nature is?
That what I was born with dictates my temperament.
I must nurture and endure the pain,
Allowing my body to be distorted and bloated,
All for some husband to have a mini-him,
And to add to my constant laboring.
Men socialized to treat a wife like a mother,
Coddled and fawned over by her,
Allowed to come back from work to a home cooked meal,
While their wife's endless work never ceases.
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 9:15 PM UTC
I am a nameless creature so fluid,
Never the same from day to day.
I pinned myself down too soon,
On a whim I named myself.
It was the wrong time for it,
I was not ready and didn't think.
Now I am 17,
No longer the scared 13 year old I was.
The name I chose was wrong.
My parents detested it too much,
And it just wasn't mine.
I know no name shall feel like mine,
Not more than a few months,
But that's okay with me.
I will pin myself down again,
My name is now Max.
It may stick,
It may not.
May 9, 2025
May 9, 2025 at 11:15 PM UTC
No one sees the useless old thing,
Perhaps a trophy from an old hunting trip,
Or a once prized possession of a collector.
Anything you can think of may fit,
But we all know what it was:
A plain old barn owl collecting dust
Upon the shelf of some antique store.
Killed and stuffed as decoration,
Passed around by its previous owners,
Re-gifted endlessly due to its unsettling gaze.
No one cared as its body ceased moving,
And its wonderful feathers became drenched
In its blood and the dew upon the grass.
Forever the bird will be posed upon its stand.
A whisper of its former freedom and glory.
No one will see how it should've been,
Only what it is now:
In the corner of the antique store collecting dust.
May 8, 2025
May 8, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
I am not sure why I did it,
Well that's what I'm going to say
Once I get caught with it.
Because we all know it'll happen.
I know why I stole the thing,
It's not very simple to explain:
The memories wouldn't stop,
I wanted some control over my life,
The urge needed to be fulfilled,
But the general, easy explanation:
I wanted to do it,
I have waited so long.
It's not like me to steal,
At least that's what they think.
I've thought about this for so long.
I contemplate doing many things:
So many horrible things,
Things I'd rather die than do.
I want to scream and cry,
Throw things, flip tables,
Show them how I really feel.
But I don't,
I keep up my reputation,
Smile through all of it.
I don't let anyone know,
If they knew half of it,
I would have no one.
The funny part about this
Is that I don't regret it at all,
I know I should.
I don't regret it,
Relief instantly washed over me,
Like the sick being I am.
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 2:39 PM UTC
I stare at this form,
This cursed effeminate object.
I trace my fingers over soft skin,
Halting at the bumps on it.
The fingers gouge them out,
Mindlessly ripping the imperfections away.
I graze it again,
Only to extract more skin.
Pieces of flesh under my nails,
Small blood drops form in place of the bump.
I see my form beneath the shed layers.
My angelic, ****** form
Finally breathes the air of this world.
I pull more and more,
Once mere crumbs of flesh become chunks.
Slowly freeing my holiness
From the cage of flesh around me.
The blood runs down my face,
Now tattered and gone.
I stare at myself.
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 1:56 PM UTC
The stains won't leave me,
Cracked paint against the drywall
Of my childhood bedroom.
The ****** t-shirt,
Dyed a brown-red to hide the stains.
Spilled paint from a failed project
On the knee of my jeans,
Covered with a pretty floral patch.
They like how it looks,
The new color I had to choose,
Only one that would cover the failures.
It's so pretty and unique,
So nice to look at isn't it?
I add patches that others like.
I'm not so sure that I like them.
At least not as much as they do,
The ones who gave me the stains.
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 1:49 PM UTC
He doesn't hear me right now.
Too busy playing games,
The ones more entertaining than me.
He doesn't look at me,
Doesn't speak, doesn't listen, doesn't care.
I know I am useless,
He drilled it into me from day one.
My words mean nothing to him.
I have stupid hobbies, stupid wants.
Nothing about me is worthy of him.
I look down at myself.
I know what gets his attention,
My dignity drops along with my pants.
He looks at me for the first time in days.
I am finally spoken to.
His words slice me.
He calls me what I am: disgusting,
Desperate, useless, horrible.
But most importantly: I am his.
I am nothing without his approval.
But at the same time he worships me.
The only approval I've gotten,
Only when I am exposed in front of him.
My only worth is my body parts,
The ones I so desperately hate.
He does what he wants,
I have no choice but to let him.
I have no one else who sees me.
Even if he only sees me for what I am;
a tool for his enjoyment.
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 11:40 PM UTC