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Abigail Aug 15
I am a smooth surface.
I am a number of hiding places.
I am meat, I am bone and
I am anything but my own.
Sai Kurup May 19
The invisible scar
Of the patriarchy
Hangs over us
Masked by the shadows of tradition
Concealed within
Dazzling bursts of color
Billowing skirts
And spirited dancing

Hot acid flung
Scathing, searing, scalding
Because weak men
Cannot handle rejection

Wed the one you love
And bring shame
Upon the family
Honor killings
As if ruthless ******
Brings morality and dignity

And now #JusticeforAiman
Our only crime
Is being female
Yet fingers are still pointed
At us
At the length of our dresses
At the makeup on our faces
At the way we smiled

How long
Until we are finally fed up
With a society
That would rather
A dead child
Over a girl?
Sidney Chelle Jan 15
"I think what struck me most about the movie was, the men weren't saying that the law was fair. They were saying that it wasn't, but that it needed to stay that way. It needed to stay unfair, because if they gave women the same opportunities as men, then men wouldn't be in power. Women would take the jobs and roles that men had always been given. It wasn't that they didn't think they were disenfranchising women.

It's that they knew they were, and they wanted it that way."


O, sir! O, snivelling, swollen man!

You are chicken meat and bird bones, sighing snuffles and nasal tones.

All your knowledge is known to me, and yet you treat me as some kind of mean green Internet queen, some kind of blithe yawning broad, some kind of child with stupid eyes and dripping lips, instead of the mother Isis that I am, instead of a woman who is barely crammed into the bristly confines of her self-concept, let alone your own!

You are snob-hardy and spiteful, sir. You are nosesome and noiseish. You fill spaces that retract from your loatheability, and you cannot see how they do because your eyes are full of fantasia and fear.

You are a walking ham-hock. You swagger and talk as if that slight edge to your jawbone grants you the same *** appeal as a Hemsworth, but you do not know all that women see in a Hemsworth. You do not care for all that women see. You splutter and shout when a woman dares speak a fiendish reality out loud instead of staying prim and ***** and proper and pretty. All that women see is that you are garbage, you are below garbage because garbage has someone who cared enough to throw it out. Women do not care enough to throw you out. They do not care to fix you, for you are somewhere beyond broken, somewhere for which there are no words. Language cannot hold the reprehensibility of your core.

You are disgusted by women who behave ****. You are disgusted by women who enjoy behaving ****.

O, to think the world was created for you! That blisscious ignorance, that bilious sucrosic worldview. That gift that your father granted to you. It bears such dripping fruit. To think that all of that was moot!

To think that a woman dare exist not for you.

Sir, have you ever said something, and, out of the corner of your eye, you witnessed the women in the room glance at each other? Sir, if glances could speak! O, sir, that glance said, "He is not our equal. He is not grown. He is a boy in man's clothes, he is a frightened yelping beastchild playing at CEO and ROI, at working in skyscrapers and reading the newspapers. He is lustful and laughable. Let him never become one of our own."

Supercilious, insolent man! Haughty, uppity boy! Unreasonable to the extreme! You are superficial, optional in my life, in the lives of all women. To us you are in grayscale, unevolved, uninvolved with our validity and our pride. You are oafish and numb, defensive with nothing worth defending. To instruct you to self-reflect conjures an image of you folding yourself through your legs, circling around your core, over your back, and doing this again and again, all the while whining and snorting that there is nothing to see here.

Do you not see the exhaustion in viewing this masterful display of amateurity? O, sir. O, unlovable ******. It is so tempting to dream, even for a moment, that you really, truly believe you are in the right. O, what euphoria to think that perhaps you are a nice man, that you mean well, that you just don't know any better, and that the tar that flows from your slippery lips was stuffed down your gullet by cruel society. To think that it is not original, to think that somewhere, deep in your egocentric belly, there is a valve waiting to turn it all off.

I despair that there is no valve. The certainty, deep inside my confusing womanhood, deep inside my mysterious uterine canals and my awful "unknowability" (that every determined woman has come to know), terrifies me.

The benefit of the doubt.

Whom does the doubt benefit?
would love feedback on this one! tried to play with word sounds and meter a bit. inspired by mary gaitskill and RBG.
Scarlet McCall Dec 2018
These shoes be hurtin’ me
and this top’s too sheer.
I can’t sit in this skirt.
Do you think I want men to leer?

I’ll wear my skirt long,
like the Orthodox Jews:
A high-necked top
and a pair of flat shoes.

I’ll wear sneakers with socks,
and jeans or black leather.
I’ll wear wool scarves and hats
on account of the weather.

Is it really “fashion”
or some type of mockery?
To dress women like ******
seems to me an atrocity

I don’t care what you think
of the outfit I chose.
I’m considering Islam
just for the clothes.
Inspired by an exhibit I saw in a museum today, on "Muslim fashion." So different from what we're told in this country about what "femininity" is.
JP Goss Dec 2018
The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***,
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***,
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****,
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****,
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-***** and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
Guns are bad--but why are we attracted to them? Why do men **** women?
Semicolon Sep 2018
The dark silently crawled into the dimly lit corridors, the cabins, and my boss's ***** mind.
The cold breeze gently and mercilessly caressed my shoulders, and my boss my *******.
I shivered from my head till toe, while his greedy gaze scanned me, from my head till toe.
The off-key beeping of a distant computer troubled my ears, and so did his hungry voice.
My incomplete files presented a pretty sight in front of his hands piercing through my self esteem.
Per his routine, he'd played all what he wanted with my body, and left it there to perish.
Next day in the meeting he tells his employees, "this office is your temple."
"Sure," I whisper.
"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."
-Laurell K. Hamilton

Em Sep 2018
Excuse me while I scream
your name
Swallowing syllables the wrong way.

Excuse me while I bite my lip and
bruise ******.
Nip my tongue.
Break my wrist.
Fighting with soft fists,

Excuse me while I stop, drop,
sit and wait.
Lie low. Ladylike.

The fire's lost sometimes,
deep within my ribs.
Excuse me, it's difficult to dig there.
Brandon Conway Jul 2018
I've inherited a loaded revolver
from my dear ole father

Each .375 has its own name

             apathy       covetousness
   cowardice                misanthrope              
         misogyny      narcissist

Pa shot himself
Ma never taught me how to unload a gun
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