i've never been in a burning building
but standing in that room with you
sure did feel like it.

"i love you, you pretentious ****."
you turn around and look at me
with such royalty and entitement
you mumble:
"tell me something i don't know."
"ok."
so i will.
i will tell you that the moment i laid eyes on your porcelain skin,
i felt as though if i even
looked at it the wrong way,
you'd break
i will tell you that when you whisper your bloodshot apologies
into my ear
my skin does not crawl
like it should
i will tell you that the inside of your heart is a dry desert
and i am trapped inside your ribcage
never have i ever been so thristy
for your love
i will tell you that the first time you pushed me away i found myself crawling back to you
you said i deserved it
and i believed you
so when you tell me to tell you something you don't know,
i will tell you:
*i hate you, you pretentious ****

One evening I was walking home,
nice dress and heels stomping pavement
of the moonlit streets in my home city.
I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe.
Catcall. It's not a compliment. It's demeaning.
He says *****, but all I seem to hear is
strong. daring. opinionated. outspoken.
Because that's what he's saying
when I stand up for myself.
when I act outside the roles of a "good" woman.
What he hope, with a five letter word,
is that I'll shut up, sit down, be seen and not heard.
because that's what being a woman is:
suppressed.
So, thank you sir, because all you've really done
is given me a reason to fight harder
a purpose to speak louder
and a way to stand taller.



"I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe."

"What a shame... I forgot my tweezers."