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Z May 28
TW: r#pe culture

anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:

i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.

scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.

although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no

all this is anything but
cathartic.

it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
  by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.

- 20210315
last updated: 20210531
ivangeline May 21
when i was eleven
older men always complimented me
i was apparently so mature for my age
yet so young and docile.
when i grew,
men stopped liking me.
too outspoken,
they'd say.
too difficult,
they'd say.
no fun,
they'd say.
and now often i wonder
why it the beauty standard
reflective of a little girl?
hairless,
soft-spoken,
dependent,
innocent.
yet they are the ones who have made us so
outspoken
independent,
mature-
women, now and then,
were not allowed
to be anything besides a ****** object
we were denied
the simplicity of childhood.
we were blowing bubbles on the sidewalk
when men drove by
catcalling us.
society hates our displays of sexuality
when they were the ones who sexualised us.
funny
isn't it?
Eva Tongali May 20
i kept your compliments in a locket
your sweet whispers wrapped in lace
i did not care about the harsh words
even when they ran down my face
and the blood trickled down and mixed with my tears
you still said i looked pretty that day
and i know it’s been two years
but do you still want to be my prom date?
for the girls in high school who never got their date to the prom
Before that August--

(strange month                                        echo)--

bloomed in the east
sunrise bomb                                           sunset dawn

you sometimes
                                                                   rose
(unbidden)

to the surface
of my mind.

These were some of my triggers:

Calgary                                                     (always Calgary)
me too
Christmastime.

And all the times                                     you attempted
to reach out to me

(sucker punch                                          sleep ****).

And then that August--

(good mornin'                                         bombshell)

the news--
for shame.

For I had fallen for the lie
(while you talked all the while
                                                                 in your human voice).

So you like 'em young.
So you like it rough.

August sun                                            beat me down.

It took this glaring
of a light

to show me
the darkest                                             of men's natures--

and that I knew them
intimately.
KyleB Apr 11
Not all flowers have thorns
but roses do

roses are special, they are beautiful
just to the likes of you

so many flowers are pretty
but nothing compares
to the aesthetic of roses

and that's why they are aware.

their thorns protect them
they are born to fight

but they keep us silent,
cut our voices
they make us die

some people don't like roses
or don't like their thorns
they'll cut off their leaves
because they aren't thorns
and they'll cut down the thorns because nothing should be in the way

of their love

or so they say

when they cut our thorns
they are so proud
but do they know they take the rain out of clouds?

they break the spell,
they obstruct the beauty
sometimes they go ahead and just shoot me

I wonder, I wonder
oh dear rose of mine
why you die, oh you die
without your thorns sublime

not all flowers are roses
but none wishes to be
for the life of a rose

is as miserable as torture makes us be
LAICEY Dec 2020
5? 6? 7?
(can’t be certain when exactly)
14.
17.
18.

He told me that it was okay.

Some will flinch at the touch.
Some will go into a daze.
Some - I - will crave the touch of strangers, and many at that,
to replace those days.

He told me that I was special.

I became careless and reckless
with love on accommodation sheets.
While I mistaken their meticulously placed words
for love that I thought was finally peace.

He told me that it wouldn’t hurt.

It’s 2:52am and my timeline is flooded
with girls and trials and underwears passed around in court
as if it mattered for the verdict.
The bags around my eyes are flooded
with tears of anger and hatred
as if to beg for some kind of justice.

They told me that I should be flattered.

But the thing is we haven’t been okay since.
It did hurt but we still needed ******* evidence.
We were already special before they took away our innocence.
And now all we can do is get angry and hurt and wince
at the stories like ours that social media has evinced.
We hope to god our daughters will never have a jury to convince.
© LAICEY Poems December  2020
Eva Tongali Dec 2020
i remember confiding in you.
telling you about the men who stole from me,
tore apart my flesh,
took everything i had when i was too young to understand i was losing something,
and i remember your face.
your face was filled with pain as you told me it wasn’t my fault,
that i did nothing wrong and there was nothing more i could’ve done,
you were going to be the good i saw in men.

i remember when i told you about the boys who asked me for pictures.
and all of the lies they told to force me into doing it,
saying they would come to my house and do the things that those men had done,
i was afraid.
but when i told you there was promise and hope in your eyes,
comforting me telling me that once again,
i was not to blame.
you were going to be the good i saw in men.

and then you became worse than the men i had told you about.
each and every one.

you said it you wanted me to become comfortable in my body.
you said that you knew how insecure i was and wanted to make me feel better about myself.
you said i had to because if i could do it for other guys, i owed it to him.
you said you were going to **** yourself if i didn’t.

i loved you,
and i think i always will.
you made me realize that there is no good in men,
and for the two years you forced me into submission,
i will never get the part of myself that you stole back.
i just want to learn how to let go of you. but most importantly, i want to learn how to love myself again.

- Eva Tongali
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2020
Tin man, on the eve of tin,
your apology rings hollow.

I think that you
were only trying to

crack a window,
find a space to crawl back in,

attempt to
erase me some more.

Meanwhile, the police
are off investigating

crimes that happen in
real time. They like

to catch their perps
red-handed. Even with you

cast in the limelight,
confirming that what you did

to me was real,
it was my own nightmare.

I know, we fall into
that grey area.

In a garden of blooms
you walk freely,

inhaling and dreaming
of touching

those yet untouched
pink and yellow buds.
Talia Oct 2020
You drag me in
past the point of
personal boundaries
Hands like hot plates
welded to my waist

Eyes undress me
with a penetrating stare
exposing me to everybody
Your kind lurk everywhere

I struggle away from
potent, *** ridden breath
that invades my air space
I try to breathe in
some respect
from anybody, anywhere?!
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2020
birds of a feather
no one has put

two and two
together

daisies gone
Occam’s razor

and he
our common denominator

no monsters under his bed
but in it

scars ripped open
I thought had healed

hurt to heal
heal to hurt

words I had never spoken
out loud before

hot lava
righteous anger

memory loss &
found negatives

was that a kindness?
to ply me with alcohol so that I wouldn't remember?

two weeks
no sleep no eat

hurt to heal
heal to hurt

a new hurt
to contend with

suddenly ghosted
back in the dark

like all dark
eating away at light

till only the stars remain
maybe signalling

to one another
I see you, I see

you, I
see
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