i don’t count aloud anymore.
i can't stand to hear your name,
such a common word.
it doesn't matter the context-
i still go quiet every time.

i used to pick up pennies, called them lucky.
i remember picking up a few
on our way back to your place.
nowadays i don't give them a second glance.
it's not their worth i've forgotten.

they say one is the loneliest number.
is that why you did it?
because you felt you’d earned it
after all this time being by yourself--
that you deserved it?
what about me,
did i?

i remember exactly what i wore that day:
short shorts, a big baggy t shirt.
i haven't worn those shoes since (and i so loved them).
they were these expensive purple velvet platforms;
i'd actually had to beg my mother to buy them for me.
"you better wear them", she warned.
that day i went home with you was
the first time i'd ever worn those shoes.
and the last.
sorry mom.

I tried on the dress I wore last prom

And I panicked

I didn’t even wash it after that night

For fear of it getting ruined

Fear 
Anxiety 
Nervousness
They’ve stained it

Not even Oxi-Clean could get those out


That dress was already tight as is

Black and suffocating
I was a wreck that night

Full of fear, anxiety, and nervousness


It spilt from my sweat-glands, I stained it
I tried on the shirt I wore in September

And I was hopeful


Of course I washed it after that evening

I bathed myself too
Hope 
Love
 Safety
They’ve stained it


Not even Clorox could get those out

That shirt was tight and revealing as is
Vulnerable and mustard yellow
I was happy that night


Full of hope, love, and safety 

It spilt from my sweat-glands, I stained it
With these two pieces of clothing
 on at once

Six stains are upon me

Fear, anxiety, nervousness, hope, love, safety

I fear that it could end, I hope that it will not

she looks at herself in the mirror
and wonders how she got here
standing like a conqueror
who won the battle
but she doesn’t realize
the war has just begun

his tongue moves up her inner thigh
she floats in a dream
the white pillow her cloud
and she thinks he is an angel
a bright star on her darkest days

but he was never a star
he was a meteorite
that crashed in her garden
leaving a crater of fire
consuming every living thing

four years have passed
but the fire still burns
those bittersweet memories
rotate through her mind
like a slideshow
she can’t turn off

now
whenever she wears that bra
she remembers herself in the mirror
and wishes she could go back
as a whisper
and tell herself
he’s a demon
do not trust him

even though
she’s washed her body
thousands of times
since he last touched it
it will never be enough

less
of my body
belongs to me
because of you

I have read so many wonderful poems,
haiku's, 10 words, so many more, and none are alike!
But we tend to forget about spoken word poems,
Hello Poetry, can you make it possible to share our spoken words as well as our massive pile on's of endless poetry. Spoken Words would add to the sight, and only make it better.
I wish I could also Use Hellopoetry on my mobile phone, in an app,
I'm not sure about anyone else, but that would maybe add to HP

Please consider what I've had to say, c:

Since age 5 I was taught
to wear loose clothing
and not talk about eating.
"No, you can't have that shirt
with the Hershey's logo across the front.
You're already overweight,
let's just slap a label on it."

My mother doesn't know that
every day I still hear her voice
telling me to tilt my head up
in pictures and to go outside already.

I remember age 9 as my dad
telling me I was smart and my mom
telling me I couldn't buy that shirt
because it clung to my stomach.

I was taught to never talk about food
because it would always be met with
"of course".

Mother dearest, I know you meant well
but your coaching lead your little girl
to value the size of her thighs over
what she learned at school today.
You wanted to protect me from
the world, but didn't protect me
from myself.

Teaching is not telling me that
I had no willpower at age 8
and you forced me to accept myself
because nobody else would.

But trust me, mother,
you were never consciously hurtful
so I need to let you know:
the next time there is a little girl
that looks up to you, do not tell her
that she has to watch what she eats
or she will never get respect.
Do not tell her that "It's your body,"
when she asks for just one more brownie.

Just make sure that you love her numerically more
than that number on the scale.

When they see her they see straight perfect teeth, round full lips.
Dark hair and tan skin,
A shy smile
With big sweet eyes.
Small, petite, but with ***** up to her chin in all their perky triple d glory.
No stretch marks.
They all fall in love with her
Smiling at the ground when she asks why.
Then they all look up at her
Slow
And say
theres just something about you..

I sit down, giving up immediately.