I know a girl who cut her hair short
My freshman year
Because a boy had pulled it so hard it
tore out her heart

I know a girl who cut her wrists
When we were in 8th grade
Because her mind was not good enough
For her boyfriend.

I know a girl who cut class
My sophomore year
To ***** a senior
Who had ****** every girl in the school
"except me" she said
"We make love" She said.

"We were great" She said.

"We weren't meant to be." She says.

i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
because
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
because
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
because
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
because
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
because
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
because
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
because
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
because
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.

i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
until
my body is my body.
until
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
until
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
until
woman means human.
until
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.

I buy how-to books on a lot of things
How to cook
How to clean
How to host a dinner party

I know how to love
and how to make 3 cheese lasagna
and how to remove stains
But I do not know how to hate

I wish I had a book
on how to loathe people who hurt me
Written for dummy's
or by Martha Stewart

You hurt me.
But I cant hate you.
For I don't have a book on how to be mad
at you.

And so I will never learn.
Because I will forever
and I will always
be in the wrong.

She must've gotten tired
of slicing her wrists with razors
And setting fire to her skin
So she burned herself on lovers
And cut herself on friends

People write poetry,
to clear their guilty souls.
To try and find hope,
in a world that's so cold.

They spill out their heart.
They spill out their soul,
in hopes that they find
some glistening gold.

Some form of release,
to put their worries to bed.
find the light in the tunnel
through all the crap they've been fed.

But not I.

The reason I write,
is all but too clear.
I write because I live,
and ill write until I disappear.