Mina Jan 3

debating whether i am allowed
to go out of the house at 8pm
or not
“because i might get raped”

debating whether i am allowed
to wear that skirt that goes little above my knees
or not
“because i might get raped”

debating whether i am allowed
to meet up with a guy
or not
“because i might get raped”

debating whether i am allowed
to stay at my friends house when they have older brothers
or not
“because i might get raped”

debating whether i am allowed
to go on a school trip
or not
“because i might get raped”

Do you see this?
Do you see the reason they give for a woman to not do certain things?
Rape.

How can we live in this world
peacefully
when we have to fear for our lives
almost every moment

lizzie Dec 2017

when your hands roam
my  body unwillingly
the first thing the police ask is
“so what were you wearing?”

as if that explains why
someone grabbed me
and dug their fingers into my skin.

as if a woman doesn’t have a right
to wear crop tops and tight jeans
that hug our bodies

my body is no one's prize
but a home where I should
be able to feel comfortable in,

not a home
I grow to hate
yet it seems as if the
world wants me to.

only when it happens do
people say it isn’t okay.
yet there was nothing done
about it.

everyone looks at you
in pity, as you try not to cry,
he said you gave consent,
that's a lie.

as women, we have a voice,
but our society teaches us not to use it.

no one is to blame but ourselves
we are taught to keep quiet, to look
and act as if nothing is wrong.
when there is a whole war going
on inside of us.

do you want to make me feel better?
don’t ask me what I was wearing.
take the man who scarred me,
give me and all the other girls
he assaulted, tainted. justice.

we sure do deserve it.

Mari Carrasco Nov 2017

summertime has never been my favorite.
the sun is too bright.
the days are too long.
public pools are dirty.
and so are those men,
you know the ones.
the ones who you can't help but catch their eye.
the ones your fifteen year old mind had been conditioned to ignore.
the ones your twenty year old self has been told to smile for.
the strangers.
the fathers.
the uncles.
the family friends.
the men that made your mother tell you to close your legs for when you were ten because you were drawing attention.
the ones who shouldn't have been looking.

Joshua Crain Oct 2017

She steps into the room,
Timidity and grace;
Innocence and caution synchronized.
She feels you watching her
And quickly turns away-
But it's too late,
She's been defiled by your eyes.

She's just another pretty girl
On whom to feast your eyes-
Another helpless victim to your gaze.
It doesn't matter what she wears,
It doesn't matter what she hides-
The second you set eyes on her,
She becomes your latest prey.

A slave to your senses,
You mother fucking perv!
I hate you and all your twisted ways.
A bastard of duplicity-
A ravenous, worthless curr-
Twisted in your soul
And fucked up in your brain!

'Cause you've got X-ray vision,
And you rape her with your mind;
Defile her with your very gaze.
You strip her down and play with her,
Debauched within your mind;
Violated, objectified, debased.

I grew up with nine sisters. I love them all so very much. Growing up with that many women, I learned a love and respect for women that is all but lost on my male peers. It absolutely sickens me to see the way they talk about, check out, and treat women. It burns me with a firey rage inside. And it kills me inside when I catch myself falling into those same thought patterns. So, this song is as much to myself as it is to the rest of the men out there. When will we learn to cherish and honor women for the wonderful people they are, created, like man, in the image of God? It breaks my heart.
BG Sep 2017

I should not feel ashamed
of what I wear
in public.
I should not fear
wandering eyes
and side ways expressions –
looking me up and down
like I am an object
to be toyed with.
I should not have to
avoid unwanted glances
from those who think
they are superior
and feel they have a right
to what I show of myself.

no one has a right to me.
no one has a say in what I wear
or how I think
or how I choose to portray myself.
I am a sixteen year old girl.
a sixteen year old girl who
should never be petrified
of wearing shorts in
ninety degree weather.
a sixteen year old girl
who shouldn’t be harassed
for the said objectification
of her own body.
a girl who shouldn’t be told
that she was asking for it
and it was her fault
for revealing her own skin.

but their eyes still wander.
they wander across my body
like an animal hunting for prey
and it doesn’t matter if I’m covered
or hiding in the best way I possibly can.
to them, I am still weak. easy.
and they know that they will
forever have the upper hand.
and if I try to use my voice
it will only be beaten by the fact that

I was asking for it,
and I am the one who chose
to portray myself in such a way
to tempt those around me.
and whatever occurred after was,
and always will be,
my fault.

you will not define me
sophia Sep 2017

Dear Daddy,
Do you know what these men say to me?

With their
eyes and their mouths
when I walk on the street.

With a grin and a nod
and a look up and down.
A wink and a kiss
and a cat call heard from downtown.

With my skirt short
and my top
low,
It’s a cold world daddy
and no
doesn’t mean no.

Daddy do you know
how these men look at me?

Like I’m a piece of meat
strutting down the street?
With my head buds in
and my favorite song on.

I’m asking for it Daddy,
I’m in the wrong.

Do you know how it feels
not to wear what I like?

To walk a little faster
when I’m alone at night?

Daddy the world is my predator
and I am it's doe,
Daddy what happens
when I can’t say no?

Alyce Black Jul 2017

What they didn't tell you
about people like me
could fill a book or,
more accurately,
all the books
made from a
forest of trees.
They probably told you
to stay clear
of people like me,
I'm a toxic sinkhole,
I'll bring out your worst impulses
and weigh you down.
They probably told you to be
gentle with people like me,
I'm broken, irreparable,
and that's all I'll ever be.
I bet they told you to have
a hot fling with someone like me.
A summertime romance,
I bet that's exactly how I seem,
a powerful hurricane of
honesty and tragedy,
ready to throw your life
into perspective
when you feel you're washed away at sea.

They probably told you
people like me have been abused,
or we had it rough.
But they've never told you enough.
They couldn't explain
how thoughts muddle in a once-brilliant brain
and nothing could convey the pain
of knowing your scars inhibit your growth.
They didn't tell you about
how I lay
in bed all day,
hating myself
after a long night of
trying to forget.
They didn't tell you
that abusive homes
aren't clearly publicized warzones.
They never explained
the special kind of pain
that comes with believing
you're alone.
It's not that
you have no one to tell.
It's knowing
people have seen things
and chosen to stay silent.
It's about believing deep down
I deserve this
because no one has bothered
to tell me otherwise.
They simply never told you
what it's like
to suffer injustice
and assume you are
so horrible
that you deserved it.

They probably told you
I'm damaged.
"Be gentle",
they say,
as if smooth
and soft lovers
will always win the day.
They warned you
people like me could never be
psycho-sexually normal,
they warned you that rape
takes something from you
that can never be replaced.
The R word.
The Big Tragedy™
that gives someone like me
a new reason to be a Hot Mess™.
They never told you
how much those sentiments sting.
They couldn't know
how it feels to be violated once,
only to be opened to the
prodding, coldly observant
fingers of strangers.
I can tell you.
I can tell you that
I'd rather be raped any day
than be murdered.
I can tell you what an unrealistic choice
that truly is,
I can tell you I value my life
more than society's perception of
purity,
but this is about blunt
honesty...
To be honest, then...
I'd say I'm just afraid of dying.
I'd admit,
between us,
there was something familiar
in his thrust.
There was an old wound
he opened inside me
that afternoon.
Some festering sore
burst open once more
and I'm still oozing and infected
6 years later.
I can tell you I'm not a victim,
I'm a survivor,
and my story
and my life
are going to be far larger
than his cock,
and larger than the wound
it callously ripped open.
They said
"I'd rather die than be raped"
because they've never been raped before.

People like me
aren't meant for domesticity,
they said.
They probably went on to say
that it just simply is that way,
you can't make a hoe a housewife
(think Game of Thrones, Shea).
They might have mentioned
the purity game again.
Vaginas are like gum,
you know,
after so much contact,
women lose their ability
to bond with others.
You want the fresh, unblemished pear
who can open herself fully for you,
the unstolen and properly locked car
that can love you with
the New Car Freshness™
of a well-adjusted individual.
What they told you is bullshit.
When they say shit like that
around people like me?
All we hear is our devaluation,
our irreversible degradation...
And then you agree.
And we hear the finality
of our own loneliness,
and we will think we deserve it.
They didn't tell you that we know.
They didn't tell you
that I count the lovers I remember
and dismiss the many I don't.
They didn't tell you
I look at who I am
and hate myself still,
and more so for not being enough.
For not yet Rising Above™
I know I am not
an unblemished fruit
dripping with purest love.
I am spiteful
and reactive
and I complain too much,
I sing too much...
I need too much.
This, they also probably mentioned,
I'm just not that great of a person.
But they didn't tell you
I know.
I know how I seem
and how things
will most likely be
for someone like me.
And I am starting to believe
them too, back to square one.
I deserve this.

Despite all that they have said,
you've lusted for people like me
in fantasies,
in books
or movies
or on your TV.
These
Manic Pixie Dreamgirls,
the wounded boys
with dark eyes...
the emaciated artist
with scars on their thighs
and torture in their heart.
They gave us a screen
just to tear us down
and tear us apart.
I'm the halfway lover.
We are the wild hurricanes
of emotion
and unresolved trauma,
spinning into your life
and taking you for a ride.
Fuck us, date us...
let us open your mind
and your heart
with our honesty
and passion
and odd wildness.
Then dump us,
because it's for the best.
You can't make a hoe a housewife.
They would have you believe
people like me
are tools you use
to pick yourself up.
People like me are walking lessons.
They told you people like me
are meant to help the world
in our own unique way,
but it would seem
we are too unstable
for anything
but loneliness.
Fuck them.
I am not your tool,
I am not your whirlwind
three month romance.
What they didn't tell you?
People like me can love.
They didn't tell you
how each person I love
takes a piece of me with them.
They didn't tell you
I still finger those holes on drunken nights,
and say a prayer for their carvers,
one
by
one.
They didn't tell you
our instability makes us
value the stability of Love.
Too broken to love, they said?
Fuck them.
They couldn't tell you
that the crazy sex
is followed by crazier laughs.
That your crisis and your tears
are our chance
to be useful,
because we want to give you everything,
we've weathered enough
to know we can weather
your storms, too...with
you.
They've said so much
about people like me,
about us.
But they left out the part
where we are
just humans,
trying so hard
to finally
settle
into
Love.

I had a lot of things on my mind tonight, and it was hard to sort them into seperate and coherent thoughts. This is my most successful attempt tonight. Make of it what you will.
Oh and that whole part about how i personally percieve my own unresolved trauma? Or about the first-hand experience I've had with rape/rape culture? Yeah, that's not up for debate.
I will accept ideas and feesback regarding grammar and format. This is a much longer poem than I usually write, and I really do want to make it sparkle a bit more.
Darbi Alise Howe Feb 2017

“Was it the backless back of a black dress that did it?”

                                          They’ll ask, loudly
                                          even though the wolves that roam these streets
                                          are merely feigning sleep
                                          and are starving

“Yes!”

                                          They will agree
                                          as drool slips from the hinge of a wolfish grin
                                          from the forked tongue
                                          of an angel

“What else could she expect?”

                                         Of course
                                         they must abide by the code of the pack(of course)
                                         which is of course
                                         the root of disrespect

“How obscene! How uncouth!”

                                         (how to measure human flesh)
                                         as if they could  hold up her “no(s)” to his “yes”
                                         which is bigger and louder
                                         and stronger

“Yes! … Yes! … Yes!”

                                         As if to them
                                         to the wolves, to the men, to the uncondemned
                                         what happened, really
                                         was for the best.

Maura Nov 2016

I want to believe things get better
simply because I have a loving boyfriend and father
but then I hear about the guys that use and abuse my friends
and look who's our future president

I want to believe sexism will go away
but Mr. President proves it's here to stay
objectifying women is normal and totally okay
not even the most qualified women could beat this man
all she did was make plan after plan
but don't you know a women's always beat by a man

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