you call her a ****,
you call her a *****,
you tear her skin into tiny shreds
and then beg for more,
your masculinity is fuelled by the sexuality you stripped her of.
she has no right to be liberated in your eyes,
but your eyes also want to see what is in between her thighs,
your respect for her body only exists as long as she is your possession.

a woman is to you what a table is to a person;
something to use,
sometimes a burden.
a woman can't be outspoken without being a *****,
but if she's quiet you treat her like ****,
you tell us to fight for what we believe in,
but when we do you tell us we're complaining,
(maybe you think I'm complaining)
while you're thinking about that
please mind the wage gap,
yes the wage gap MORE THINGS TO COMPLAIN ABOUT!
I get 75 pence for every pound a man makes,
maybe I'm making mistakes?
no, no I am not.
perhaps some people have forgot
that someone's *** doesn't make them under qualified,
I think your brain is nonaligned,  
because right now in two thousand and sixteen a woman should be respected even if she isn't the ******* queen.

I hope you can see what struggles women endure,
we may as well go back years and years and knit at home while you go to war.

I'll just be over here cleaning the entire house,
oh and while I'm at it I'll clean that glass ceiling while waiting for my husband and feeding my offspring
because that's all a woman does right?
cook clean and nurture, and give yourself to your husband at night
God forbid you swing the other way!
single, or worse...
no kids and gay!

women have to fit into perfect cookie cutters.
that, and a size 6
but not too skinny though, men aren't nutters!
big *****, big *** and a small waist
your extra few inches of skin can be erased with diet pills, exercise plans and corsets!
if not, you can choose the forfeit,
of society telling you that you can achieve your dream beach body,
to catch the attention of somebody
preferably a man who can be the bread winner,
while we can stay at home, look after his kids and cook his dinner.

I'll stop complaining now and go back to concealing my blemishes and under eye bags,
while you talk to your friend about how we are still just slags.

~T.T

when you walked away you forgot to let go of my hand
and you took me with you
but I was not beside you,
I was behind you, begging to be seen
I was forgotten
the worst feeling isn't being left behind
it's being left along the way
when you're sitting right beside someone and they can't see you
they never saw you
you're yelling at him to let go
but he can't hear you,
he never heard you.
he only listens to himself
and he wonders why the only people who surround him
are those who only like him
for the shallow things
floating at the top of his throat
there's his answer.
you wanted to dive into his soul and latch to his lung
pinching whatever breath he had in him
reminding him that sometimes
it's easier to breathe with someone beside you,
someone inside you
he coughed and spat you out
but kept your taste a memory
for when he was craving something sweet
and now all you hear from him are whispers in the dark
when he's lonely
and has a craving
you know that cravings don't last
you know that neither will you
but something inside you,
wanted him to be happy
because if you could just make one person happy,
maybe you would be too
but this is the hard way
to learn that isn't true.

You cut your wrists
You say its bliss

You slice your thigh
And wish you were high

You hide the cuts
Nothing can be done

You **** the gun
But fail and run

You were found
Passed out on the ground

You were saved
Sewn up and laced

You thank the boy who found you
Youd be dead without him

But if only you knew...
He went through it too.

Society's affection of those with the best complexion
Others being faced with rejection
Its society that needs the correction
You need to love your own reflection

I thought girls
were meant to be cute.
Able to giggle
and flutter their eyelids
and toss their hair around,
to catch boys in the tangled net.
There's a hole in mine
and my eyes won't seem to flutter.
Moths lay stagnant over them,
not a butterfly in sight.
I try to look seductively out of them,
give a coy smile,
but it doesn't work
and my laugh isn't right.
Not the light hearted bird song that lifts a guy's heart
to a girl's mercy,
but an awkward
sigh
stinking of irony.
I wish I could be like the others.
I wish I could sway my hips
and lick my lips
and feel
beautiful.
I wish I could preen in bathroom mirrors
instead of run straight by,
the ***** floor a better sight
than what the mirror would hold.
I wish I could be in the pictures
instead of taking them,
the friend referred to as pretty
instead of the one made to deliver the message,
the girl that talks instead of stays quiet,
already knowing the outcome.
I wish I could just
be
a
girl.
Whatever that means.
I wish the mirror wasn't the scariest nightmare I've ever had,
scarier than the men I can't please,
scarier than the fact that I can't please myself,
scarier than all of that.
There's a crack in my reflection.
How do I seal it up?

I told you I'd stopped drinking coffee
because it made me too anxious.
You told me,
wide eyed and serious,
that I was a different person
after a couple of cups,
my mood changed to black and unstable,
harsh.
How could I tell you
that it wasn't the coffee,
but you?
No amount of caffeine could make me shake like you could,
send the invisible hand wrapping round my neck,
constricting,
refusing to let go.
That sick twist in the pit of my stomach,
you,
the vice like tightening of my muscles leaving me bed bound,
you,
the topsy turvy, murky milkshake of words in my head,
you,
the quickening of breath,
short rasps racing up my throat knocked back and left to struggle somewhere around my lungs,
you.
It was all
you,
you,
you.
Coffee made me more alert, aware, awake;
unable to switch off and escape into sleep.
All I wanted to do was stop feeling tired.
You were one great big exhaustion.