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Feggyr Citack Jun 2018
-on cracking and crushing

It's hard
to conduct oneself
when candy's on the shelf

It's there for the taking
my decency is breaking
I feel I slip away

Where's that hopeless helping hand
of my helpless hapless father
Now I need it, not in my shirt
and for once not under my skirt

Who on earth can help me stand
against this hapless hopeless bar
It ***** me empty
me - imploding star
#metoo is probably just the top of the iceberg.
Stara Jun 2018
I have talked and listened
Tried to imagine
The horror
Of someone taking
What isn't theirs
For their own
Selfish pleasure

I never thought
Me too

But seeing his face  
It all flooded back
Within seconds
What my mind hid from me
For nearly half a decade

Me too
XyL0S May 2018
That
thin
line,
Between
LOVE
And
HATE,

I never wanted you,

To
cross,
THE
OTHER
WAY...



....now it's deepened, and it's lost somewhere...Beyond my sight.
Buried somewhere only you could find...
BR May 2018
Did you know that if you leave your car in your driveway,
With the keys in the ignition,
And someone sits down in the front seat like they own it, and drives away,
You are the one who is liable for theft?
They can drive that sucker to the coast.
They can burn the upholstery with their cigarettes. They can bring their friends into the back seat, and fill the compartments with their refuse, and ****, and they can leave it ruined in front of your house, or crushed into the median on the highway, or left in disconnected pieces under an overpass.
It will be called, “unauthorized use of a vehicle.”
It will be called a “misdemeanor.”
But you left the car running.
Weren't you kind of asking for it to happen?

They said,
This,
(Gesturing to the skirt which fell to two inches
above my kneecap),
Is like that.

If I walk outside of my house in jeans and a t-shirt, or a long dress with thin straps,
Or with my chin tilted out,
Or with long eyelashes,
Or with full lips,
Or with my hips swaying when I walk,

It's like I left the car running.

It's like I invited them to force their bodies into the front seat.
In their minds, or with their hands, or with their lips to anyone who would listen to them.

Little girls in leotards become like unlocked car doors;
Where men can burn their cigarettes into their skin,
Or stick their fingers in
In plain view of their parents,
And told to let it happen,
Quietly.
It isn't theft,
It's “a medical examination.”

What did they expect?
It isn't a theft.
She was just as guilty of negligence.
It isn't really a felony.
It's not THAT BAD. (Stop being so dramatic.)
It's the unauthorized use of your body, for a time, or one night,
or every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life,

Sure-

But you left the car running.
Em May 2018
I present myself "promiscuously" when i feel like my body isn't my body

When the predatory shadows swallow up my mind and convince me that my body belongs to anyone but myself

So i post that "revealing" photo, i send that ****, I go out wearing as little as i can possibly get away with

I do this as an attempt to take back my body
to look years of trauma dead in the eyes and say "*******"

i own this body; this body is my own.
BR May 2018
Turn. Tug. Pull at my dress where the buttons came undone in the scuffle. Point to the clavacle, a little blue. Trace it with your cruel fingers. Talk like it was your right to take my body into your mind and do what all red blooded men want to do. What they're made to do. I wanted it. Draw the strands of my hair into your nostrils, and close your eyes in what will look like a prayer for chastity, to the very blind. You enjoyed the way it felt to undress me with your words in front of everyone, and nobody stopped you.
I bet it felt powerful.
I bet it felt like freedom, to flick your tongue to taste the air right out there in the open.

You are not free.
And, forgive me,
But I do not believe that men were made to pull off the buttons. I do not believe they were born to take our bodies into their minds, or into the back seat of their cars, or behind dumpsters, or into empty laundry rooms where no one can hear the screaming.

Forgive me,
but it's *******.

Men do not have to be cowards, or dogs, or drunkards, or the way it feels to have the pillows ripped out from under your head for saying "please, not tonight."

You are not free.

(But you could be.)

My sisters and I were placed on the front step in front of the house, where red blooded bodies were begging for red blood, and ***, and somebody's virtue to ravage.
They said, "take our daughters."

It was our innocence which made us the perfect consolation prize. A tidy meal to tide them over.

The truth is coming like a sword.
The truth is coming like water.
The truth is coming like a sword.
The truth is coming like fire.
BR May 2018
it's the way her hand moves back and forth in the air
as she's thinking
Like a maestro, conducting
an orchestra;
but it's her mind,
unfolding.
cue the crash of cymbals,
jarring
-- and silence.
//
Cue the image of her ex husband,
and the flat landscape which was their marriage
and the heat which hovered on the horizon,
like unreachable dreams,
taking on the form of
water.
but she cracked with dry reality.
cue the salt on her lips

-- crash.

//

and here we bring in the street preacher,
who can't keep his eyes on her face.

he reminds her if the desert.

he reminds her that sometimes we must cover up the curves to keep from stumbling our weak brothers who cannot resist the presence of wine,
(but she is not the wine.)
//
women are not the wine,
and men are not the drunkards.
women are not the wine,
or any other intoxicating substance.
neither are they meat sacrificed to idols,

or meat at all.
//
cue the crash of resounding cymbals
and it breaks her train of thought
but it does not break her
//
and the desert did not **** her
and the drunkard can not taste her

cue the crash

-- and silence.
mildew Nov 2017
i am unholy, i have been touched. i have felt the hands of despair, and looked into the eyes of wrath. i have formed bonds with the sloth inside me, found hope in avarice, and not once looked back.

i am unholy, and can only be filled with the envy that resides deep within my bones.

i am unholy, but i am not vain. there is no pride in my soul, and no soul in my body. there is nobody in the world that will hide the mark that you have left.

i am unholy, i have been touched by your hands, looked into your eyes, and mistaken your lust for love. i have formed bonds with your soul, and tied myself to your ribcage. i have allowed my hope to be swallowed, and failed to question the holes being drilled into my happiness.

i am unholy, but you are the devil
BR May 2018
I am afraid of speaking.
I am afraid of the texture of my voice, and the effect it will have on you.
I don't want to be pressed into the caricature of an angry woman; voice raised in what they call a hysterical display of emotion.
Calm down. Be rational.

Stop being
So
Dramatic.

Well let me tell you something:
I am an angry woman.

Because all I can see is my best friend’s blonde head, coming within an inch of becoming the crushed drywall beneath his fist.
All I can see is the false piety painted on his pastor’s face, asking, “well… did he hit you?”

I see her eyes closed in the darkness, fingers gripped in the sheets he tore off of her body to wake her. She has to hold on to something.
He says, “Show me you're enjoying it.”


Calm down. Be rational.

Like he wasn't gaining access INTO her BODY by FORCE. Like, of course it's her job to lay down and take it. Like it. Lick his lips for the taste of honey, because honey, he told you to.

but it's poison. It enters her bloodstream, weakening her will to resist it.

She looks at her phone, at a text she did not compose herself, or send,
“Hey hot stuff. When you see this, let's have ***.
“If I pretend I didn't write this I'm just playing hard to get.”

Do you get it?

Yeah. I am an angry woman.

Stay calm, dear sister. Be rational.
Rationalize the gaslighting, because the big picture doesn't look beautiful when you hang it above the sofa; and her home was staged to look like a family so that when you look in the window, you don't see that she was a hostage.
You don't see that her son was asleep in the bed when he grabbed her face between his hands and crushed it,
And called it “gently redirecting her gaze.”

From the window, you can't see his body blocking the exit.
You can't see her baby, with his little fingers curled around her *******, begging for comfort.

I will not calm down. And in case you are so damaged by devotion to comfort that you can't see it, it is right to be angry.

It is righteous.

I am angry, and more rational than I have ever been in my entire life- rationally, righteously begging for justice to flow down like rivers.

I am an angry woman.
PoetAnon May 2018
The worst part is
I loved you back
Adulterous affair,
Absolutely abominable!

Maybe you didn’t mean to love
Me, the girl inside
the young woman’s body,
you only thought you knew

Flirtatious banter
once hinted at thoughts

Unsayable;
Intelligible abyss once linked
unsuspecting minds;
Understanding so
Deep, so
Accidental.

Praise me, praise me.

Be careful,
Time is taking over,
How could you, you fool
You can't beat the clock!
You're in love now.
Did you intend for this?

But was it Me you sought to love?
Or was it just my body?
The thrill of the ilicit,
The power
Over a child?

Origins unknown

Grown out of your control.
Say goodbye to reason
I’m your master now.

What’s happening to you?
You’re afraid and I, well
I am the child
who will destroy you

Words, your last weapon
Escalating, no wait, stop
You’re killing yourself.

It's too late
I tried to warn you
You failed me, embarrassed
Me.

I egged you on.

I loved you back.

I’m sorry.
#MeToo
Reflections on my confusion and guilt after I reported my university professor for sexually harassing me.
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