you call her a ****,
you call her a *****,
you tear her skin into tiny shreds
and then beg for more,
your masculinity is fuelled by the sexuality you stripped her of.
she has no right to be liberated in your eyes,
but your eyes also want to see what is in between her thighs,
your respect for her body only exists as long as she is your possession.

a woman is to you what a table is to a person;
something to use,
sometimes a burden.
a woman can't be outspoken without being a *****,
but if she's quiet you treat her like ****,
you tell us to fight for what we believe in,
but when we do you tell us we're complaining,
(maybe you think I'm complaining)
while you're thinking about that
please mind the wage gap,
yes the wage gap MORE THINGS TO COMPLAIN ABOUT!
I get 75 pence for every pound a man makes,
maybe I'm making mistakes?
no, no I am not.
perhaps some people have forgot
that someone's *** doesn't make them under qualified,
I think your brain is nonaligned,  
because right now in two thousand and sixteen a woman should be respected even if she isn't the ******* queen.

I hope you can see what struggles women endure,
we may as well go back years and years and knit at home while you go to war.

I'll just be over here cleaning the entire house,
oh and while I'm at it I'll clean that glass ceiling while waiting for my husband and feeding my offspring
because that's all a woman does right?
cook clean and nurture, and give yourself to your husband at night
God forbid you swing the other way!
single, or worse...
no kids and gay!

women have to fit into perfect cookie cutters.
that, and a size 6
but not too skinny though, men aren't nutters!
big *****, big *** and a small waist
your extra few inches of skin can be erased with diet pills, exercise plans and corsets!
if not, you can choose the forfeit,
of society telling you that you can achieve your dream beach body,
to catch the attention of somebody
preferably a man who can be the bread winner,
while we can stay at home, look after his kids and cook his dinner.

I'll stop complaining now and go back to concealing my blemishes and under eye bags,
while you talk to your friend about how we are still just slags.

~T.T

My **** is today
I got a low score
My sweet is today
I got to wake up.

I feel like a zombie today
My mind drifting to somewhere else
Yet my body is sitting in class about earthquakes
And a teacher with a face-palming pronunciation and grammar.

"Percent..." I heard her say once.
But it went percient instead.

I feel like sleeping today
Not the usual snoring kind.
That one with a total blackout
where no one can wake me but me.

My sweet is today
I get to write poems again
A slam at most
Now give me the mic (1, 2, 3, 4...)

My **** was yesterday
I was watching a slam with a friend
Not live, though
And someone called me weird.

I feel like an idiot today
Walking these halls
and wasting this ink

But (I hope) Colleen Hoover doesn't mind
I borrowed her version
of **** and sweet

-090915

I'm writing you a note
just because
because I'm feeling like
I have to
feeling like I'm
helpless here
and without your rough
forceful touch
I'm angry and aching
craving my bittersweet
agonies
wickedness creeping up
from the black hole
that hides behind
my human skin
please
pathetic and weak
though I likely seem
I'm willing to beg
down on my knees
grated concrete
scraping against my flesh
scratched and bloodied
and I'm pleading
make your palms, your
fingertips, piercing stings
hold me down
**** me and take any
notions of my possessing
power far away
make me see how
I'm nothing, just
worthless and infuriating
and you, so much like a god
why yes, you're the god
god of everything
so break me down
and rip me
limb from limb
and seam by seam
for I am merely a
servant girl
and you've the part
of the cruel king
come to me now
please come
come and punish me
I am nothing, lost
perplexed thoroughly
without you to bring me
to life
for I only become truly alive
in moments of raw abuse
so won't you come now
please
you strong, glorious man
and help me live awhile
inside the blood and bruises
that'll be left by
your pounding, ******
hands
you're exactly the one
I want to deliver
deserved consequences for
my countless sins
a beating into submission
my soul
for a little while, at least
alert and cleansed
pleasure me by flooding me
in an ocean of  hurt
every wave some new sort
of pain
your lessons are the single
part of my existence
I long for so desperately
most passionately crave
I'm begging, come
now please
remember me, helpless here
and share the beauty
only your own source
your inner darkness can so
easily create

The, Oh I just can’t stand this pain
The, I will never get him out of my head
The, Why me, why me
The, this is my fault
The, I’m forever ****** up now
The, I hate you so much
The, don’t touch me
The, I jump at the sound of leaves
The, I head footsteps coming to my door
The, How did I manage to get into this
The, Every movement you make will  cause me to flinch
The, Don’t give me metaphors to heal my heart
The, Don’t touch me
The, I said don’t touch me
The, A hug is touching me so please stop
The, your walking to close behind me
The, this is my fault
The, If I smell him I will burst into tears
The, every face in a dark room is his
The, Why do I still think its my fault
The, If you grab my shoulder I might start crying
The, No I don’t want to talk about it
The, I don’t have to tell you if I don’t want to
The, please stop asking me
The, Yes I knew Him
The, no, you don’t have to be walking home alone in a dark ally for this to happen
The, I said no
The, he didn’t listen
The, why wouldn’t he listen
The, I still think its my fault
The, No man can ever heal me
The, Yes there are good men out there, but I don’t want you  to “heal me”
The, no, not every poem I write is inspired by him
The, no I don’t hate ***
The, no I don’t hate me
The, Your touching me again
The, No I will not talk about this
The, It’s not my fault poem

We sit in a circle after
In my living room
I am talking
How my ex who
I can not help but
love
was ***** during this last Halloween
How another girl
who met another night
was corned
One kept watch
blocked off the section of the house
She was ***** by a window
She could look out
See the other partiers
Why was this happening
I cry
I tell them how
I feel helpless
I cannot protect the women I love
While I’m talking about this
He is handling his ****
with sick pleasure
right ******* next to me
I don’t know it
but he is
thinking about
the girl
last night
and
the ones before
their screams and their blood
how he had gotten away with all five
It had happened to the victims before
they say reporting
Does
Not
Mean
****
I don’t know it
but he is thinking of his next victim
My mom