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Leia Spencer Jan 30
If men had a curfew lives would change in many ways
But there’s some setbacks to the attempt of fun outside
When I’m not with muscular friends past a certain time of day
I’m told to cover up my bra strap because the boys become distracted
Since “boys will be boys” reigns and girls pretend to be attracted
What if I could eat a burger in a bar without the need to feel guilty about my diet
And when I’m asked if I think I’m fat I say no, because it’s fishing for compliments to deny it
I’m told that I should be complacent and dress nice by a man three times my age
And scolded by society because it’s unladylike to be in a fit of rage
I could go outside and gaze at the dance the stars know so well
But I sing along with the peculiar song of that familiar cautionary bell
What if I could go out with friends past eight PM and explore the bright! Happy! world
Stagger through life in heels with our wit sharpened and eyelashes curled
No, I have to spend my time hidden “safe” inside
From men who think there’s no more to me than what they can see with the ***** eye
This has happened ever since I turned the ripe old age of 13
Because there’s some people out there on the streets
Whom it would be an injustice to only be described as mean
I could walk out to my car without my hand poised with my keys as if they were a knife
And not have to worry about how a short low-cut dress could harm my life
(Me too) It could be worse! They say, for some reason with such force.
But since when was my safety
A cause for discourse?
I had to write a poem for my 10th grade english class on my relationship with society. I took the opportunity to make something great that I cared about and I hope that everyone can take some time to appreciate it
Gabrielle Jan 29
I met a girl today, let’s call her, “A”.

She had brown hair which flowed down over her shoulders and back like ripples in a river of melted chocolate.
Her eyes were rich and sweet like pools of poured molasses.
Underneath layers of woolen thrift shop fabric, her lovely pale wrists and neck peeked out.
We spent hours together, inviting strong coffee to splash down our throats, and giggles to bubble up from our lungs like hot springs.

Through shared trust, she confessed to me that her pastel skin had once been painted black with alien brushes,
Her Hershey hair had known the touch of uninvited fingers,
And her cocoa eyes are forced to replay visions of unimaginable horror in color.  

But I could imagine.
Oh, sweet girl, I could imagine.
Paige Jan 26
Believe it or not
I'm screaming every day
Because being a woman is
A pain you can't forget
From hands over mouths
And mouths on bodies
And bodies under pressure
Pressure to be perfect or
Pressure to be pliable
Wrists stuffed down behind backs
And knees pushed wide apart
Fear in our eyes
Blotting out the stars
And cotton shoved in our throats
Stifling our voices
When the world ignores our cries
I. Am. Always. Screaming.
Because every day
Is looking over my shoulder
Convincing myself
As I stand in a mirror
Knuckles white with my rage
My repressed hatred
My scars
I am strong
I am fierce
I can do this
But the pain
The fear
The constant wondering
And constant betrayal
Because none of these men I love
Give a **** about this fight
Understand what it means
To sit next to a stranger on a bus
And feel their skin start to shiver
The eyes of them
The souls
The skin
The men I came to trust
Or believe in
They don't know the harsh reality
The horror movie I have to face
The nightmare I have to live
We have to live
We are not alone
But that is not enough
I stand with you
But two bodies tied to the post
Only burn together
We're both dying
We're both screaming
How do we make this place
Safe for the women who
Will inherit our shoes?
Ritz Writes Jan 19
I don't want a day to celebrate.
I want a life to celebrate each day with every fibre of my body;
That screams
That shout
That feels
That makes me more humane towards perspective.
Towards change
Towards voice
Towards life.
Let me be me.
Love Yourself
Francie Lynch Jan 17
Growing to manhood is a slippery *****
Of razor blades and bones that grow.
****** screen shots of angel wings,
Red carpet slits, eye popping lips,
Miss Pageants and tutus on skates.
Britney shaking, Jennifer quaking,
No Old Spice to take young spice's place.
The X comes before the Y,
Yet Toxicity is the hue and cry.
I'm a man in a mixed-up world,
But girls still like boys,
And boys adore girls
I don't dismiss sexism, but the daily ****** and jab at males being a "toxic ***" will impact us in ways we don't see yet.
Eyes flutter while heads pound,
Memories come flooding in,
Someone else in the bed,
Soft smirks, asking how it was,
How what was?
Heart and head pounds,
Memories go blank,
Except small struggles,
Soft drunken no's, that go unheard,
Still touching, no stopping, please stop,
Enough, smile,
It was good, it had to be,
Small nagging feelings,
Ignore, ignore, go away,
Nothing happened,
Everything stills,
Voices heard, but not recognised,
Shapes and shadows,
Nothing real, nothing happened,
Silent screams, as the world moves,
World moving, but I am not moving with it.
I get judged
I get eve-teased
I get killed
Outside by burns
Or even inside the **** - as stated by medical terms
I get thrown out
If I’m not fertile
And I get called names
If I have a child
Without getting a wedding-tied

I get beaten
I get blamed
Even if the fault isn’t mine
I get objectified
And told “She wanted it”
But I still come out of it just fine
Even then
I get pained
I get tired
I get hurt
I bleed a lot
Not from only the physical/mental wounds
But each month in my own blood I get drowned

I get locked up
Sliding from the door step rotten food comes
On the floor of dust
I even am given ash and cloth to soak my ‘dirt’
Little do they realise it’s just a part of how we can ‘give birth’

I get humiliated
I get hatred
I also get good things and lot of love instead of blames or non-sensible names
By those who are sane
In places only few
Cause it’s still an idea new
To save a girl and her esteem too.

I get discrimination,
Please, for sake of humanity,
And not a new government policy.
Change this inhuman tradition.
When I look at her face,
a small child who is "she"
  and it's clear she has no
idea of stale ideals that block her

You are a small angel, and
you're unaware of trails that look like gold

There is truth: they are just gift-wrapped.
hiding "be polite.
"don't sit like that.
"cross your legs.

Here is your truth: You are not small. You are full of magic and there is no path that you don't own.
I undressed for my shower,
And noticed something *****;
Something I've used all my days,
Suddenly disappeared.

I had it with me yesterday,
And used it several times;
I always put it in its place,
And took care of what was mine.

I really can't explain it;
Now what's a fella do;
I'm not to blame,
I refuse the shame
Of the hashtag framed MeToo.
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