so apparently the blood between my legs makes me less less than a skyscraper with men in suits and vests less than a cluster of cells who can’t breathe yet less than a white man with a **** and a company and if i can’t even pick what grows within me how the **** can you call me free?
i’m nothing but an oven to cook your bun nothing but a *** object for your own fun nothing but an *** for you to cat-call as you walk down the street, down the block, down the hall
i’m nothing but a **** for sleeping around you’re the “ultimate player,” the king of the town you call me a ***** for taking control but you’re just a “leader,” you’re running the show
my sisters have died because they said “no”
and you won’t let me have the drugs that keep the blood in check and you won’t let me save myself when my body’s almost wrecked and you think it’s fine to strip my rights for Holy God Most High and you think it’s fine to **** me if i’ve showed a little thigh
so a revolution is on the horizon the only solution is all women rising with venom and gunshots with words to attack--
**we’re taking our ******* bodies back
I am so ******* about the SCOTUS Hobby Lobby ruling I can't see straight (which is why this poem *****). WHERE IS THIS GOING TO END?