men
only want
to have *** with me

that's it

gross

You're not a necessity,
You’re an accessory.
Stop trying to own me, talk at, and stand next to me.  

Stop playing the role of the leader- you’re less than me.
I am the boss here you have nothing to offer- see?

I am stronger, smarter, brighter, bolder-
and all you have to say is what?
“If I can’t have her I’ll hurt her.”

You think because you’re man and I’m women I’m yours,
but when it comes to offers I haven’t see anything worse.

You call at me,
Stare at me,
Swear at me,
Slimy and gross like a leach.
You taunt me and smirk at me as if I’m in your reach.

So I’ve talked to you once,
We’ve made eye contact- your point?
You’re a cog in a machine line,
a small piece,
an ordinary joint.

You’re unoriginal with your words,
even less with your actions.
I’m beautiful and talented,
So when it comes to you there’s no attraction.

You have nothing to offer me,
let me be-stop accosting me.
You’re taking up my time and it’s costing me.
Because unlike you I’m not worthless,
I’ve got ambition and drive.
I’ve got brains-not just an ***.
You’re not the reason I’m alive.

You’re nothing,
You’re worthless.
And if I wanted you, you’d know.
I’ve been trying to tell you repeatedly just where you can go.

Your offers?
Not catchy,
not tempting,
I don’t want anything less.

So sad to know when it comes to relationships-
this is as close as you ever get.

You’re ****.
You’re trash.
You confuse me when you talk.
Since when does a women sleep with someone when they gawk, or when they stalk?

You’re a coward,
You’re a loser,
Your creation was a glitch.
And though yes, I am rejecting you,
No, boy-you are the little *****.

Could it be possible that I’m worth more than my ******?
When you look at me what do you see?

Because I am frightened by your eager eyes.
I am nervous at the way you so openly ask me,
“Are you married? What is your age?”
I pray in my mind that I’m just being naive.
Not every man is seeking to make you their toy.

But as I walk down the street, foreign tongues caress my ears,
Eyes poke at my curves,
Hands reach to cage me.

I am American.
I am white.
I am a college graduate.
I have a credit card.
I have a savings account.

But these things about me are not an excuse.
My skin may shine in the sun,
my belly may be well fed,
my privilege may make you jealous,
So hate me for my birthright,
But let me be free.

I am not here to save you.
I am not here to please you.

But let this be a lesson.
Let this interaction give me courage and hope that maybe you really do only want to talk.
Let my mind stop alerting my adrenaline to run so that when I need to I can outrun you.
Let this be a peace offering.
Let me tell you that I am American,
But that doesn't mean I’m a dollar sign.
That doesn’t mean I’m better than you.
It means that I was lucky.
Know that I am sorry.

I am not here to save you.
I am not here to please you.
I am here to be with you.

Is it possible to fall in love with just someone's hands?
I hate to objectify a living being,
but his hands feel like home.
And I know it's not usual to compare someone to a house,
but they say home is where the heart is
and my heart has never been so settled.
It's probably wrong to be in love with a person's features
but not the actual person;
to move into their vacancy space and
make a home out of them
because, in return, they will fall in love with you
and you will not be able to reciporicate it.
After all, people do not fall in love with objects,
and when they do, it's possessive.
But I have always been selfish and this time is
no different.

Silent and alone, I flow through shops with so many
windows, but I see nothing except the faces around me, the ones
who might believe I'm more gossamer than the shawls and tunics
meant to disguise us all as ethereal hippies in the New Age.

Silent and alone, I stand by the fountain, waiting
for something to break the sleepiness of solitude when
two men spot me: mouths parted, eyes appraising, judging, appreciating my physical worth. Rooted in place, I smile.
Only when they look at me do I have purpose.

There's a body in the trunk
I tell the policeman
and he steps back, hands up
in the face of an invisible gun.

I'm allergic to you
I tell the boy,
because acting crazy is
the only way to make him leave.

I love another
I say to the man,
creeping fingers insistent
against soft skin.

I ******* hate you
I shout at strangers,
wicked words are unwelcome
and their desperation chokes.

I've got chlamydia
I tell another
and he vanishes,
it's my very best trick.

I did not want this
I said to drunken man,
do not look at me, those starving eyes,
you've already consumed me whole.

There's a body in the trunk
I whisper to the policeman
but he does not see it as I see it,
the empty cavern that yawns wide.

He tells me lying is a sin,
sternly pulls down whatever's left
"be a good girl" he sings so sweetly
but does not condemn what was theft.

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.

you are essentially an object to me.

no one dare invent words that pick and **** and litter our ears
with shards of doubt, dismissive declarations.

the victorious are those who cover their ears and screen their eyes from
someone else's misery: bruised knuckles and a wall that wouldn't budge.

but all I see is a woman crumpled on the floor, her pride
posed like a crow on a branch in the open window frame,
mocking her failing strength and shattered resolve;
someone's fist tingles with accomplishment
for putting that Thing in her place,
close to her true place,
on the shelf
she dusts and polishes fastidiously,
lest he call her out on her "half-assed attempt,"

no one dare invent words

that limit little girls to the plastic boxes
for their plastic dolls
with plastic smiles.

when the seed grows buds,
that become flourishing leaves on a solid stem,
reaching up, up, up
can they see me yet?*
but all they want is the fruit.