the daughters of the street begin
their journey in vibrancy,
pretending they hadn't been
afraid of their own voices.

the soles of their worn-out shoes
beat in rhythm on the soil
that breathes tulips and coughs dandelions.

some of them will be wishes,
objects of desire in the eyes of men
who look like they have lived
their whole lives in subway seats,
ready to strike.

and i thought i would stay in this place
of directions and dreams,
thinking i could pick one off the sidewalk
like a dropped penny.

they never keep the buildings up
long enough to rust,
rain doesn't stop anyone.

suddenly there are two of them
facing each other's weaknesses
and neither will give in.

she's up to her neck in
unrealistic expectations,
he is up to his in all his confidence.

the only difference
is doubt, splashing up to her nose,
trying to get into her head.

and when she looks in the mirror
all she sees is who her mother was
and who she wants her daughter to be.

my hands are tired from all the squeezing
i do when i'm alone,
trying to get every last drop of
anything they'll give me
when i know i deserve better things.

maybe i'll just walk to work
and see the flowers on the other side of the road.

i wish they'd toss me over there like a stone
or there was some crosswalk and a crowd
i could hide myself in
and pretend i am one of them.

there is only concrete here.
how can we grow anything in it?
yes, we have the water and sun,
but nowhere for our roots to stand.

it's getting crowded on this side of the street
they speak of throwing some into the river of cars
so we have more room for our feet.
oh, won't you let some of us cross
so we can cultivate
the flowers on the other side of the road
they're drooping under your shadow.

The fragility of female flesh,
The feminine depth within each pore
Hides a deep havoc beneath glowing embers,
A storm man fears and calls a *****.

every monday
she says she
wakes up
regretting
who she is

that going
through all
the *******
and fear is
not worth it

every monday
wishing for the
other side the
life of power
of comfort and
ignorance

every monday
she wakes up
wishing
she was not
a woman

Do not touch yourself.
Your body is not yours to claim,
Reign in your securities
And tie them to the bedpost
A notch that your crotch will never

Remember,

Do not try to regain
The strength to stand up tall,
It only gives you a place to fall from.
If you hold your head up high
People will start looking what is inside.

Remember.

Only let others touch which is yours.
Now open your legs for a round of applause.

nice college
girls yelling
*****
*****
***

knees on the
ground in this
dark basement
a stupidity test
oath of a blind

allegiance join
the cult drink
this beer or you
are gay conform
conform conform

sure i cried after
but not from the
half hearted
abuse cried
for them  

cried for the
part that
died the part
that didn't
want to call
them out to
leave early

the part that
was still a kid
the part that
could not care

they had no
control over
me that night
i killed me

I wrote several years ago, a scrap of paper with wondering thoughts--lost.

Delinquent, ovulating, *****, lovers, ***
devil, ****, lies, logic, science
dalliance, omission, legality lost, sultry
does oppression look like ***--yes:
It was forced, it ran it's course
but it still runs, runs runs
silently, but in actuality, loud
quietly, but it prowls, hunting for calamity
a sad reality-- a tragedy
with wicked twists which linger
on my wrists, hips and thighs
charred with scars and lies,
I lied: with my thighs
when i let you in, it wasn't a sin
but a lesson I learned, as a girl
and education I didn't earn
--but I sure paid for
no cause for concern
but I find it discerning, sick
and disturbing--you seek dolls
so fine, glossed pretty pink lips
that shine, lips like mine
but there is no crime,
put a price on a doll
and say she's worth a dime.

Shimmer highlights
Glitter heels
Make me dress
To his appeal
Make me a magnet
Of attraction
Objectify me
A distraction
Let me be an unholy thing
touched
Besmirched
On your whim
Be my prince
On my bed
I’m sleeping now
Between your legs
Saint Malady
Patron of the honest house
Enter through the backdoor
And let it be nothing more

I am not required to love you.
Let's get that straight.
Neither man nor woman
Is obligated to profess
And show their undying love for you,
Just as the sun doesn't revolve around the world,
The world doesn't revolve around you.
A series of acts showing your "kindness"
Is not a contract for a relationship.
The very fact that you have to shout
How you are a "nice guy"
Shows how you aren't;
Kindness doesn't need reassurance.
To be frank,
This whole delusion
Is getting a bit out of hand
(see: the "****** Killer",
a guy so sexually frustated
He killed people
for not giving him the right to get laid).
Maybe, hear me out here guys,
it's not because girls only look for "bad guys".
Maybe we look for soulmates,
Not Good Samaritans with hidden agendas.
This may come off as a shock for some of you,
But all-around goodness isn't equal
to treating girls nicely
Only because you might have a chance.
So if your mating dance
Consists of acting like you're an angel And simultaneously complaining
About the blindness
And insolence of women,
It's high time you should stop.
Put down the fedora while you're at it.
It's become a symbol for gentlemen for you,
But now it's a warning sign for us: "Beware the self-entitling guy!"
Honestly, we cringe every single time.
And darling,
Nice guys always finish last
because they whine
Instead of running.

Why is it that
people have to be better
for a thing between
their ears
their legs, or
on their chest?
Pink for one, but
Blue for the other.

Why does Blue have to be
stone cold
harsh like broken concrete
tall
broad
strong
smart
apathetic
manly
headstrong
t­hink between their legs
and not their ears
no make up
hate fashion
sporty
not thin
not fat?

But Pink has to be
emotional
soft like silk
shorter
petite
weak
stupid
can cry
girly
thoughtful
think between your ears
don't go near between your legs
lots of make up but look like none is on
all about fashion
hate sports
not muscular
not fat.

Why can't there be a purple?
A middle ground of color.
Where everyone can be
who they want
and not care.

Built a cage in a cage
as an olive branch for
those who wouldn't call her an animal,
but won't call her a person.
Built a metaphor to slay her sister,
like trying to walk while hammering
your own toes;
hobbled herself to the master's home,
and played with the master's playthings,
and ate the master's food,
and received the hard end
of the master's humor
with a smile.

We are misinformed creatures-
A bird with wings to fly, but no destination.
A wildcat that hunts only to ****.
A serpent poisoned by it's own venom.

She traded hands to beat herself to death;
died with wrists broken,
lacy finger bones strewn across her throat.
No melody on her tongue.
Nobody dying to meet her.
Nobody is dying to meet us.