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Kylee Aug 2019
When you feel the thunder in your thighs
Look up to the sky
And thank only yourself
For being brave enough to allow him passage through your lands
Given the last time you peeked through the gate
It was torn down

               Scorched the trees
               ****** the birds
               Ate the flowers
               And ****** the rivers dry

C O L O N I Z I N G      you

Turning lush forests into the Sahara
You flooded them out

Now feel the cool trickle
Of his hands on your waist
The splash of lips, on your inner thigh
Notice the depth within you
The surge of water deep in your belly
Rushing, rushing, rising
Until it overflows.
For now let me drink your sweet nectar
But remember you decide when to turn off the faucet

-The life history of my sexuality
Feedback welcomed :)
Maine Dela Cruz Nov 2017
“Nice ***.”
It might be obscene to begin a poem
with *****
the way strangers in the sidewalk
begin conversations with Anatomy
or Algebra when they ask
for an exchange of numbers
like old friends meeting at the subway
on a hot Sunday afternoon.
Quit Science
when the only thing you know
is to scrutinize a woman’s body,
identifying which parts would satisfy
your carnal desires.

When I was nine
and the curves in my body
were not yet defined,
when “***” was just a word
I read on forms we used to fill to know
if one is male or female,
I happened to pass by a group of boys
who laughed at the top of their lungs
over a bottle of *****
after one of them remarked something
about my “flower”
when I wasn’t even holding one.

I did not fully understand what they meant
but then and there I felt fear,
then and there I learned
that a flower’s not a flower in the context of
how they grinned as they
masked their grim faces
with laughters and remarks
like predators lurking in the shadows
of their sisters, wives, and daughters.

Looking back
and thinking how I was violated
the first time when I was nine
and my curves were not yet defined,
I laughed because twelve years later here I am,
still replaying inside my head
the voices of men who acted
as if they own my body,
who decided to steal from me
what is only mine to give
as they wait for another prey
to caress their whiskers in the sidewalk.
A poem about catcalling.
A Jul 2014
its been about 9 years since you stopped making me keep your twisted secrets

you are the reason that blood dripped from my finger tips every night for so long

I'm finally strong enough to know none of this was my fault
Bet yet still to weak to run to get help for the other little girls who are probably your victims.

Sorry for taking your innocence
Although it is not my hands clawing at your child thighs
For they are his
And i am sorry.

— The End —