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Widad Apr 17
I wear lace like armor, heels like blades,
Lip gloss sharper than your daddy’s blades.
I twirl in silk, then break your pride,
A sugar-coated storm you can't survive.
You wanted soft? I’m softly cruel,
Bat my lashes while I bend the rules.
You prayed for a princess? Oops, I’m the queen,
With a pink smile hiding something mean.
You say I’m “sweet”?
Then why are you scared to sleep?
I haunt your mind in perfume and pearls,
A girly goddess wrecking worlds.
I'm the nightmare in satin and glitter,
The pink poison that makes you bitter.
A dainty danger with diamond claws,
Dancing pretty while I break your laws.
My body’s a temple, my stare’s a spell,
I'm heaven and a touch of hell.
Celestial bodies dress in pink—
We’re everything you fear to think.
I sip champagne while I watch you squirm,
Smile so sweet while I make you burn.
Twirling through chaos in ballet shoes,
This Barbie bites—and you will lose.
I laugh like wind chimes, cut like knives,
Your fragile ego won’t survive.
You thought I was sugar, soft and small?
Darling, I’m the one who ends it all.
You wanted nice? You wanted tame?
But I’m the spark you couldn’t name.
Wrapped in pink, I run the game,
A girly flame you’ll never tame.
I'm the nightmare in satin and glitter,
The pink poison that makes you bitter.
A dainty danger with diamond claws,
Dancing pretty while I break your laws.
My body’s a temple, my stare’s a spell,
I'm heaven and a touch of hell.
Celestial bodies dress in pink—
We’re everything you fear to think.
Donald Trump thinks he’s bold and rich,
But he’s just a scared, misogynist glitch.
Spray-tan clown in a suit too tight,
Cried “fake news” ‘cause truth burns bright.
He built his name on girls' disgrace,
While hiding fear behind his orange face.
Talked like a king, ruled like a joke—
Guess what, Donnie? The throne just broke.
He mocked our rights, laughed at our tears,
But we’ve been rising for centuries, dear.
Your walls? We crush them.
Your lies? We hush them.
Your era’s over, pack your ties—
This is HERstory, and we cut ties.
evangeline Apr 16
Courage wears a pleated mini skirt  
Red tights and Mary Janes
Gold shadow in the corner of her eye
Courage wears a **** bra
Three shades darker from two weeks worth of sweat
A silken ivory blouse, first two—
No— first three buttons undone
Scrubs
Courage wears overalls
Rolled at the ankles
A nose ring
Butterfly clip and an old locket
Courage wears men’s boxers on a female body
Dr. Marten’s with the chunky soles
Carabiner on the (right) belt loop
And her grandfather’s leather belt
Courage wears gold hoops and a silver watch
White after Labor Day and off-white on her wedding day
A lab coat in the morning, a breast pump at lunch, and a little black dress later tonight
Courage wears a uniform
Hand-me-downs and Goodwill sneakers
Cheap lingerie and slutty stilettos
An orange jumpsuit
Camouflage
Courage wears a binder to church
A burqa to school
Box braids in the office
Courage wears the pants
Wears the shoe when it fits
Wears her heart on her sleeve
Wears pain like a badge of honor
Courage wears a kitten heel
Even when it goes out of style
With the cry of a tigress and the beauty of stars,
She fell to Earth from her mother's womb.
Like a bird, she longed to soar-
Like a leaf, she learned to fall.

Her brother was adored; and she was his shadow,
A flicker in the light they reserved for Kings,
Betrayed by her own, yet still-
She dipped her spine in ink and painted wings.

"A woman's hand," they scoffed,
"Was made for holding, not for breaking."
So she raised hers to the sky,
And pulled down lightning for her naming.

They hurled their rocks and built cages around her,
But there exists not a cage, strong enough to hold the storm.
They asked, "Who gave you the right to fly?"
She smirked, "The same God who gave you the Sky."

After years of flight, she was no longer a shadow,
Her brother could have his birthright!
For she claimed something grander than that-
With wings now like an Albatross, she claimed the sky.

She claimed the sky
A ravishing piece on womanhood
Chapter I: Disappear Politely

There was a town with one stoplight
and two churches that hated each other.
The first church tolled its bell louder.
The second buried its girls quieter.

It was the kind of place where grief
was passed down like heirloom silver:
polished, inherited, never touched—
except to prove they had it.

Where the girls learned early
how to disappear with grace.

They say the first one—Marlena—
just walked into the lake,
mouth full of wedding vows
no one had asked her to write,
and her prom dress still zipped.

The older preacher saw her go under—
didn’t move,
just turned the page in his sermon book.
Said later:
Girls like that always need a stage.

The parents told their daughters
not to cause trouble.
Told them to smile more,
leak less,
bloom quietly,
be good—
or
be gone.

Then cried when they vanished.
Then lit candles.
Then said things like
“God has a plan,”
to keep from imagining
what the plan required.

Chapter II: The Girls Who Spoke Wrong

A girl named Finch refused to sleep.
Said her dreams were trying to arrest her.
One morning they found her curled in the middle of Saint Street—
like a comma the sentence abandoned.

A knife in her boot,
daffodils blooming from her belt loops—
like she dressed for both war and funeral.

Finch was buried upright.
Because God forbid
a girl ever be horizontal
without permission.


The sheriff was mailed her journals
with no return address.
He read one page.
Paused.
Coughed once, like the truth had teeth.
Lit a match.

Said it wasn’t evidence—
said it was dangerous
for a girl to write things
no one asked her to say.

No one spoke at her funeral,
but every girl showed up
with one eye painted black
and the other wide open.

Not make-up.
Not bruise.
Just warning.

Chapter III: Half-Gone Girls & Other Ghosts

And then there was Kiernan.
Not missing. Not dead.
Just quieter than the story required.

She stuffed cotton in her ears at church—
said the hymns gave her splinters.
Talked to the mirror like it owed her something—
maybe a mouth,
maybe mercy.

She was the one who found Finch’s daffodils first.
Picked one. Pressed it in her journal.
It left a bruise that smelled like vinegar.

No one noticed
when she stopped raising her hand in class.
Her poems shrank to whispers,
signed with initials—
like she knew full names
made better gravestones.

Someone checked out Kiernan’s old library book last week.
All the margins were full of names.
None of them hers.
They say she’s still here.
Just not all the way.

A girl named Sunday
stopped speaking at eleven,
and was last seen barefoot
on the second church roof,
humming a song no one taught her.

Sunday didn’t leave a note.
She figured we’d write one for her anyway.
Some girls disappear all at once.
Others just run out of language.

Clementine left love letters in lockers
signed with other girls’ names.
Said she was trying to ‘redistribute the damage.’
She stood in for a girl during detention.
Another time, for a funeral.

Once, Clementine blew out candles
on a cake that wasn’t hers.
Said the girl didn’t want to age that year.
Said she’d hold the wish for her—
just in case.

She disappeared on picture day,
but her face showed up
in three other portraits—
blurry,
but unmistakable.

The town still isn’t sure who she was.
But the girls remember:
she took their worst days
and wore them like a uniform.

Chapter IV: Standing Room Only

They say
the town
got sick
of digging.

Said
it took
too much
space
to bury
the girls
properly.

So
they
stopped.

Started
placing
them
upright
i­n the
dirt,

palms
pressed
together,

like
they
were
praying
for
re­venge.
Or maybe
just
patience.

The lake only takes
what’s already broken.
It’s polite like that.
It waits.

They renamed it Mirrorlake—
but no one looks in.

The daffodils grow back faster
when girls go missing—
brighter, almost smug,
petals too yellow
to mean joy anymore.

No one picks them.
No one dares.

The earth hums lullabies
in girls’ names,
soft as bone dust,
steady as sleep.

There’s never been enough room
for a girl to rest here—
just enough to pose her pretty.

They renamed the cemetery “Resthill,”
but every girl calls it
The Standing Room.

Chapter V: When the Dirt Starts Speaking

Someone said they saw Clementine
in the mirror at the gas station—
wearing someone else’s smile
and mouthing:
“wrong year.”

The school yearbook stopped printing senior quotes.
Too many girls used them wrong.
Too many girls turned them into prophecies.
Too many girls were never seniors.

They didn’t bury them standing up to honor them.
They just didn’t want to kneel.

The stoplight has started skipping green,
like the town doesn’t believe in Go anymore.
Just flickers yellow,
then red,
then red again.

A warning no one heeds.
A rhythm only the girls who are left
seem to follow.

Some nights,
the air smells like perfume
that doesn’t belong to anyone.

And the church bells ring without being touched.
Only once.
Always just once.
At 3:03 a.m.

Now no one says the word ‘daughter’
without spitting.
No one swims in the lake.

The pews sigh
when the mothers sit down.
Both preachers said:
“Trust God.
Some girls just love the dark.”

But some nights—
when the ground hums low
and the stoplight flickers
yellowyellowred—

you can hear a knocking under your feet,
steady as a metronome.

The ground is tired of being quiet.
The roots have run out of room.

The girls are knocking louder—
not begging.
Not asking.

Just letting us know:
they remember.

*And—
This piece is a myth, a ghost town, and a warning.
A holy elegy for girls who vanish too politely, and a reckoning for the places that let them.
Ander Stone Apr 3
She would paint on a solemn face
to walk undisturbing into your world
of silver towers and streets of marble white,
yet in mine she could wear a clean sight.

She would file down her fangs
to whisper sweetness within your halls
of opulence and feigned delight,
yet in mine she'd bare them in starlight.

She would shut close her lilac eyes
to fool herself into seeing just the veneer
and not the rot beneath your noble court,
yet in mine she'd see the beauty in the dirt.

She would smother herself in lace
to blend in with the specters that lurk
within you entourage of pomp and nightmare,
yet in mine she could run naked without care.

She would drown her voice in vile liquor
to hold her soul from flying away in spite
from all that you've done in her name,
yet with me she would drink in the sky-flame.

She would be loved.
Her voice would soar.
No paint on her face.
No more.
Joss Lennox Mar 31
I think I had a thought once,
not sure where it went

I think I had a choice,
before their automatic consent

I think I had a body,
until it was covered under a glass ceiling of intersectionality,
disguised as empowerment & healing

I think I had ambitions,
but I wasn't allowed to share them f r e e l y

I think I had a story,
which included originality, not mass produced 'bots

I think I think a lot,
it's okay though, only when it helps with the plot

I think I had a life,
built on standards of equality, for all to prevail

I think I was The Foreman,
who settled on being the female
thoughts from a feminine point of view, as a mother who's willingly put her own goals on hold to help with raising a family. also can be perceived from a feminist point of view for women's equality in the world.
J Bjork Mar 19
Culture runs backwards:
strength is weakness,
soft is
empowerment-
dissuade yourself from
this rampant mindset
we've placed upon thrones,
instead find reserve to manifest
and bask in
this well of fluidity
that masculinity
can never hone

Heavy lies the crown,
it is hard
be free with the wind
like a fallen leaf
and you will catch
a safe ride home
from Mother Earth herself-
even though her tread
is unsteady,
she flows

Only when you are
certain
that there is
nowhere to be
except where you are,
will you find exemption
from the urge to shape
or control

The gut
is a compass,
let it guide you to
novelty,
and what lies beneath
the surface: that is where
adventure begins,
it takes one big leap
but you will let go
until there is nothing
left to rescind
03/25
Natalie Mar 17
It’s not one man running at the speed of light
But a group of them
none of them knowing the other

We know it’s not all men
But every woman has a story
How come?

You put 100 women in a room
97 will fall unlucky
HOW  come?

It’s not all men
But it’s some
And it is every women
When does it end?

It never ends
HOW Come?

Don’t dress provocatively they said
And yet even your not
It still happens
They ignore the no’s and the pleas
To continue for their gain
HOW COME!

so the fight continues
To be a woman:

To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.  
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…

bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?

Who has he bled for?


He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.

You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.

Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.
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