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Emily Oct 2022
If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.
Elle Aug 2022
Look at him through fluttering eyelashes
Be docile
Be his doll
Sweet, supple, submissive

Tell him of his brilliance
Tell him he's the only one
Let your thoughts become his words
His words, his brilliance
Not yours

What is his will be valued
You will be valued
For being his
Not yours

Speak up but not over him
Your thoughts are his words
His words his brilliance
Stay sweet, supple, submissive
His, not yours

You speak too much
Your lips are not meant to be used
Unless for him
and his pleasure
His, not yours

You think too much of your pain
Destitution of recognition
Unless it be in empathy of his pain
Yours will have no value
His, not yours

You spoke over him, not up
Your words are not valued
unless they become his brilliance
His, not yours

You are becoming autonomous
Remember who you are
Fluttering eyelashes
Supple body
Never your own
Only his
His, not yours
Zywa Sep 2021
Slap, slap, the stickers

instantly turn my body --

into an object.
Hospital--- For Maria Godschalk #129 --- Collection "On living on"
Dinara Tengri Feb 2021
My hair is not a raven's wing,
A wave of black, a river whose
treacherous shores
you long to explore.

My ******* are no doves: soft and fluttering;
No Promised Land of milk and honey:
there is no one to welcome you home.

My stomach is not a valley of wonders
leading to a treasure so many men
have died for.

My eyes are not slanted windows to some
ancient Eastern wisdom; no obsidian pools
that many great warriors have drowned in.

My features are not exotic
My skin is not silken
My soul is not unknowable
My mind is not inscrutable
And my body is not your muse.
Maybe I'm the dark brown eyes you stare into
The ones you see your reflection in

Maybe I'm the hand combing through your jet black hair
Or the voice in the wind on an empty rooftop bar

Maybe I'm the brain you treat lesser than yours
Or the body in the room that tells you that you're not alone

Maybe I'm the throbbing **** you leave red Mac lipstick stains on
Or the stern screams that remind you of your father

Maybe I'm the lips touching your left cheek
Or the fingers that fix your nose ring

Who am I if not for all the times I've been cheated on?
Why should I be more than a pincushion
For all the times your dad didn't tell you he loved you?
Who would I be to all of you if I weren't
barely a brain,
a ****,
and lips
Who am I if not a string of traumas
Walking my way through a path paved with eggshells and broken glass?
Who am I?
I'm back. For now.
Kevin Castro Dec 2019
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.

(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.

but in thirty seconds
i crash.

i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.

i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.

and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****.

Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.

my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.

these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
(ekphrastic poem for Eshu by agnes arellano)
triztessa Oct 2019
We aren't,
after all,
you fit into
the shape of your
wants and needs or
whatever kind of life
you lead us
and you turn me
like a marvel
like a caveman
this light
and then you switch

I am not the type
I am not the end of the game
I am not the comfort

You seek.
Sarah Michelle Apr 2019
She is organized in a way that is unfathomable,
An alluring contradiction with the eyes of a madwoman
On the body of a laid-back cat.
You try to ****** her but she is everywhere above you
And every night when you meet her
She already has you trapped inside with everyone else
who is propelled by her many solar systems.

You watch her when she appears dormant.
You can try to calculate her patterns,
But since you met her she has worn nine different faces,
And she dresses as too many species to name
Yet you may think she is tame.
This is true, she does less damage than she is capable of,
So test her limits but remember that
The universe has no edge.

She is curved and always expanding.
You can’t decide if she is too fat or just the right size
Because she is shapeless and swimming before your eyes.
Her stars are many but her constellations are uneventful.
She bursts her stars like whiteheads
And swallows herself up in the muddy, black potholes left behind.

Her galaxies overlap too much to be teased apart.
Each sun has its own ideas about gravity
And claims each others’ planets as their own.
This is not a harem though for she is not polyamorous.
Worse, they are tessellating love triangles.

Love for her is like politics only there is only one wing, one branch
And all parts are just a sum of her.
She couldn’t love you even if she wanted to.
There is already too much for her to maintain,
Too much to spread evenly across your small body
And too much for even God to see.

You’re not an astronomer, a telescope is a peep show to you
You lie in your hammock seeking instant gratification, all of her all at once.
Even if she were simply one of those stars
She wouldn’t travel light-years for you.

You think you know her, the brightest star above you,
The one you stare at thinking she is staring at you,
The one who flips her hair like the other girls you like,
Who all share the burden of giving you
The satisfaction of having something to flirt at,
Something glorious to form into feeble prey
With your small, shallow eyes, and which you use to glorify
Your own simple machine of a body.
Rewrite of "an earlier poem called "Somebody Else."
David Hasselblad Mar 2019
**** Toy

Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,

Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,

It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,

Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,

Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,

Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,

Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,

In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,

He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,

Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...
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