they are not offensive, nor are they breaching any rules or guidelines...:(

I am nothing
more than damp
dewing the mould of your mind
nothing
more than an extra vessel
trying to keep your heart awake
trying to keep the blood inside you
nothing more than a crimson clot
pale cloth
watching the poppies grow up, and off
I am nothing
more than leaves in autumn
before you digress
and I fall
forgotten

''Girls only like *******.''
I grimace at those words
as I happily take the compliments
laced with sexuality
bestowed upon me by some guy with good cheekbones,
who practices his lines.
I hate that he gives me butterflies.

I try and replicate that fluttering feeling
with the guy who's nervously stumbling over
the dorky love letters from his heart.
I know he's sincere,
unpractised,
And I'm made guilty for cringing at his face.
(It's slimy
I'm sorry.)

But you were awkward
and nervous
and oh so uncalm
you had a little extra weight and a grin you despise
and I love,
and your words were all scribbled on notebook paper
with lines covering every time you
underestimated the blue in my eyes
(you needed better ways to describe.)
But you gave me more than butterflies
I was in love with the ''nice guy''
so why'd you leave my side?

I need feminism
because men are more upset about people saying "all men"
than they are about the fact that 1 in 4 women will be ***** in their lifetime.

Not harassed, not catcalled,
*****
And that is not okay.

I need feminism because out of the four women
I speak to everyday
two of them have been *****
and all four of them can't walk to their car
without sticking their keys through their fingers to
feel the slightest inclination of safety.

I need feminism
because the other day in my math class
a student said "She was asking for it"
and the teacher agreed.  

I need feminism
because when my father wasn't drinking
he was telling me to be a man.

I need feminism
because the way my father taught me to treat women
was to get them drunk.
It's not his fault,
he knew no better.

I need feminism
because my father knew no better.

I saw you from the bottom of the stairs before you knew I was coming
And though nervous and scared, I lingered on
I heard most things break by the ends of these types of nights
So I'll force upon every word I’ve brushed up on
Since knowing we wont speak like this again

You got a certain who knows what about you
And I got a small amount of time
To figure out what it is exactly and to whom does it apply,
But I know for a fact that these are broken nights,
Covered in bottles with the stench of a loss of life,
And I know that it's quite heartbreaking we won't speak like this again

Seventeen
what a terrible age to be
when you were skipping in between nineteen and twen-ty

Soul mate status
you became,
tattered charm
barely onto second names

But you spoke and it grasped me
something strong
too lovelorn and lame
we went on-

Romanticising the grainy photographs
the first date talk
the promise of touch
from a distant walk

Compliments thrown around like
greetings
and it terrified me
all those would-be meetings

That rush that turned out
too intense
and the explosive goodbyes
to false pretence

But there were no real goodbyes
you just left my town
so that was the high
and this,
the comedown