//

The definition of thot [that ho over there], via Urban Dictionary

A woman who pretends to be the type of valuable female commodity who rightfully earns male commitment—until the man discovers that she’s just a cheap imitation of a “good girl” who is good for nothing, and definitely not for relationships or respect.

If women are products, then thots are cheap goods. More than that, they’re knockoffs: low-quality merchandise that attempts to masquerade as luxury items.

They generally dress in cheap clothing, try to act like they're better than they really are, or think they're not trashy but high class when they're nothing close to classy. They demand respect, money, gifts, dates but do nothing to deserve any of it because they have no self-respect, no manners, low self esteem, little education and on top of all that they are thots because they have no self worth.

//

he called me a thot.
the same blood-boy nightmare who bragged about his foot fetish and double cup. too cheap to buy actavis generics, so he drank himself into a stupor on walgreens brand dye-free cough syrup. he acted black, said words white boys shouldn't have near their mouths. his friends were ableist at the best, and misogynist at worst.

he called other girls thots too.
but i was different. stick-and-poke told trans king who told american spirit who told blood-boy what i confided in a friend. a story that ends and begins with my tears, tears from gagging, tears from telling my mother about the worst three minutes of my life and how my knees and heart hurt afterwards.

i embodied thot.
left my family for friends, joked about the pain until it hurt even more. i found myself crying in bathroom stalls, looking down at my body in the bathtub as my eyes leaked. the girls said i was thick, i didn't know if they meant it in a good way. the boys said worse. i wore camouflage pants, comme de garçons tops, air force ones. i jumped on trends like a wild cat stalking prey. but i could never catch anything worthwhile with my soft, clawed paws.

he smiled like he was better than me.
after blood-boy stunned summers and winters alike, burned spring and fall, and for what? to call me a thot? i knew what i was to him. but that didn’t define me anymore.

he called me a thot.
and this time i fought back with my eyes, didn’t just sit there and feel words welling up inside.
because even thots are queens.
because i used to be deciduous, but now i’m evergreen.


//

Quit that high class act, lady. You’re a thot.
*- Urban Dictionary

Mims Nov 2017

Did you know
I have tiger stripes?
I'm actually a jungle cat
Waiting to pounce
Did you know
The lines around my hips have deepened
And so have the crinkles around my eyes when I smile
I have bruises up and down my legs
From my bedroom carpet
And wooden floors everytime I have fallen

On Que
I ask if I can go in front of you
and I flick across the floor
The same way I did inside my living room
But one misplaced toe
One thigh not turned out
And I find myself on the ground
I have done this
Over and over
I haven't fallen for so long
Muscle
I've built over years had kept me off the ground
And then it all came crashing down
Did you know?
No
Because you do not know me
You do not know the blood sweat and tears
You can not pick me apart
I am a work of art
But I was made by a 13 year old at three in the morning solely for self expression
I pick myself up and ask to go again
Because I know I can do better
Because I hold myself to an impossible standard above all others
I push myself
And my body betrays me
So I do it over and over as soon as I get home
Did you know
I stopped counting the stretch marks

Don't  worry about my legs looking 'bulky' as long as they support me
The day I found out i can only rely on myself
I did not cry
I built muscle
I gained tiger stripes.

Ballet is the only thing that is concrete for me.  So it is what I invest myself in, instead of people. It is the only form of self expression that has always meant the most to me, the day I quit therapy, I started ballet religiously. It is the only thing that is constant.
Pixie Ellis Sep 2017

Do you call me baby girl because you don't take me for a woman?

Treating love like child's play,
As I go from pulling pink love me not petals from roses,
To the own hairs on my head.

You say girls are just crazy,
Too complex for you,
Treating us like some kind of,
Chinese maze-rubik cube.
We're more like 20q.

When you come home from a night with the boys,
And we're giving the four W's.
But sweet boy you reek of her perfume.

Cheap flowery scent of female, £5.99 at Boots?
You act like you didn't choose.
As I sniff the scent of pink petal roses,
On your shirt and on your neck.

White shoulder,
Bruised baby blue.
As you baby girl me till your face turns blue,
But I can't even look at you.

Because who?

Who's lips were on neck?
What do you expect to happen next?
When there's lipstick on your collar,
And her caller ID is a private number.

Why did I pick you?

Like the beautiful flower in bloom,
How could I not realise that it was you?
The sour taste like perfume in my mouth,
Fingers like thorns,
Empty wishes filling my heart with love me nots.

But then maybe it's me,
Innocent pink petal pulling herself apart,
But baby boy, baby boy.
My pink blood runs blue.
You can try pluck my petals,
But it'll never make a man out of you.

- p.d.e

This was written as a spoken word poem, I like to read some aloud kinda like slam poems. But I still wanted to share never the less.
MJ Aug 2017

There are so many things I want to tell you, but never will.
So many things that I can't even mask with another puff of smoke or a pill.
Believe me, these are not things you want to hear, like, "I love you," or "I had a great day at school today," or even, "Guess what? I made a 26 on the ACT on my first try."
Although the latter is true, I no longer wish to tell you these things anymore because this is my reality:
I resent you.
Yes, resent.
Resent.
Verb.
To feel bitterness at a circumstance or person.
I resent you for putting so much pressure on my ACT score and then when I finally tell you what I made you say, "Oh, okay."
As if all the work I put into school meant nothing to you in that moment even though all of my hard work, I do to please you.
I resent you for taking away the one person in my life that made me truly happy.
He was my light; my salvation.
Because you disapproved, whether it was of him or the effort I put into him, you took him from me.
You broke me.
Because of your version of 'protection' I did not feel the need to sleep anymore.
My pupils drowned in tears and my hands trembling from sweeping up the broken pieces of my heart all by myself.
I resent you for not taking me seriously when I told you I wanted to kill myself.
I resent you for telling me that my depression. the way I feel behind the mask of me that you created, was just a phase.
That I would get over it.
I resent you for not talking to me, just to see how I'm doing.
I would sit in my bedroom for hours marveling over self made cuts that burned under the holy water that was my tears.
I resent you for not wanting me.
You can tell me whatever you want, but I spent the first 12 years of my life making up stories about you and my mother because I couldn't remember who you were.
Where were you?
I resent you for not getting to know me, and assuming that because I am your daughter you know everything about me.
I resent you for trying to fix me and then claiming to read me like a book only to go and sit me on a shelf.
I resent you.
When I ran away, I expected you to take it as a sign.
It was a suicide attempt that you brushed off your shoulders because you refused to believe that I am troubled.
I resent you.
I resent you for accepting my fake smiles and posed happiness as the real deal when inside I am screaming into the void for you to realize that I am troubled.
That despite my best efforts, I am real.
I resent you.
Maybe we get along sometimes but that is my façade.
My way of mirroring acceptance regardless of its legitness.
My weakness is my ability to notice what you cannot comprehend.
I wake up every morning blasting death grips in my head phones, pondering the fixation of a life's worth of unsolved problems.
I've told you a thousand times of my achievements and of my feelings and those three dreadful words, "I love you."
I promise that somewhere deep inside my resent turns to love, but it is dangerous for someone like me to truly love.
And I promise that I am trying to get my tongue to forget how that tastes.
Because every time I say, "I love you,"
I resent you.

I hate to admit it, but I have never been as truthful as I am being in this very moment.
Kirsten Perry Jul 2017

This is for the three A.M writers,
The four A.M coffee drinkers,
because sleep isn’t useful at this point.
This is for the daughter that lost her mother
at age twelve and never stopped smiling.


This is for the boy that knows that the
closet will only be kind to him
for a little while longer
but can’t bring himself to leave quite yet,


I see you.


I see the smile fade for just a second,
the small tear run down your cheek.
I see how quickly you the wipe it away,
scanning the room to make sure no one saw,
but I did.

This is for the social smokers,
and the casual drinkers and
the avid vapors that think that cotton candy
flavored juices won’t give you cancer…
I see you.


I see you post drag, look at the cigarette
like it's the first time one has ever been in your hand.
I see the moment you realize you want
your lungs to give out. I see you raise it back to your lips.


I see you sip from a coffee cup at a football game,
but oh don’t you wish it was coffee,
but instead coffee brandy burns your throat
as you try to forget all the bad things he did to you.


I see you.


I see you wince at the final sip, not only because
you took too much to swallow, but because
the pain made you realize what you have
let him turn you into.


This is for the class clowns.
The boy that tries so hard to make other
people laugh because he
can’t remember the last time
he actually smiled, and if he
can make other people happy for just a second,
one day maybe he’ll be happy too.


I see you.


I see you after landing the punchline,
analyzing the classroom,
and when the roar of laughter fades
so doe’s smile that never quite reached
your eyes.


This is for the the invisible.
The “unmemorable” face in the crowd.
The people in public with their face in a book,


I see you.


I see you watch quietly in the background.
Listening to everything around you,
never brave enough to speak up.


I see you.


This is for all of the people that at one point
in their life thought no one was watching.
That no one ever cared enough to see you.


I see you.

Shianne Michelle May 2017

I got your message, Though it was never sent.
I heard it loud and clear.
Your silence cut through me, Sleep Evaded me and I could not tell you.
Tell you the roses that drape across the bed still have thorns.
that possessive wears the mask of a protector.
Teaching yourself to hold onto your protest so that he will still want you.
Confusing Love and Abuse, volunteering for the draft of his war.
Begging to become a causality of the love he claims to feel.
I've seen this, I've written these words once before.

George Anthony Jun 2017

and so they tell me,
"you don't deserve nice things"
well perhaps I'd be
inclined to agree
but here's the deal:
when shit gets real,
I don't give a fuck what you think of me

and you're over the sea
so why should your opinion bother me?
I've dedicated far too much time
to two-faced, self-serving
insert profanity that rhymes;
if you don't love me,
that's fine
I'm over wanting people to be mine

"oh, read this, George thinks he's so cool"
no, not really
I'm just refusing to be some tool
that you think you can use.
oh, you miss me?
screw you, you fucking liar
I'm no goddamn fool

grades aside, papers don't matter:
even if I'd failed school
I'd still have more brains than you,
so spin your lies
and think you're clever
but I've seen through them all
and I'm so much better
than you realise,
ah, your blind eyes

egotistical? maybe sometimes
just a little,
but at least I don't con the people I call friends
and when I say I have their backs
I have them 'til the very end.
see here's the fucking truth:
I'm always fucking honest,
so to stick to my word,
here's something I want heard:

I'm not gonna miss you, your stupid ways, or your empty words

George Anthony May 2017

i am not yours to pursue,
nobody's to claim, to obsess over
you do not have the right to ignore my declination
nor to see my rejection as a challenge;
i am not a game or a puzzle
if you think my "no" is a jigsaw piece fitted in the wrong place
there for you to move and arrange
again and again
until you finally hear "yes"
then you are too much a child for my liking
too much about the conquest and not enough about the person.
my "no" will not be manipulated into a "yes",
you cannot play me into your hands

i am not a gamer, i am an artist
i will sketch thicker lines, make my "no" bolder
NO
i will add more tone, make it sterner
add more shade, allow my anger to cast shadows over your reputation
and it will not be hard to outline your true colours:
you've already revealed so many.
i don't need to paint you as a villain; you have done that much yourself
you too are an artist, in your own right...
you've smudged your lines so much, you've crossed boundaries.
your so-called love is not delicate pink―it is blood red and sticky.
your so-called affections leech the grey from my palette
and leave me seeing you in black and white.
oh, there's not much white, not much innocence
you are an all-consuming black; your desire to swallow me whole is abyssal

i will not be the reference of your portraits,
you cannot draw me in
your kind of passion disgusts me; you are not a true artist.
there'll be no soft brushes between us,
only sharp edges of craft knives
as i carve into your determination and soften that hardened clay
into something i can mould and shape,
something i can twist away from me.
six years is a long time for something to be set in stone
but i have a sledgehammer will and i refuse to feel backed into the corners
of your lustful foundations.
i do not wish to be a masterpiece in your eyes any longer.
i never asked you to admire me.
i will not be hung on your wall.

Boys go through this shit, too. I did. Twice.
George Anthony May 2017

this is an open letter
for me to be able to say
i just don't think i can do this
anymore, because...
i just can't do this anymore

if i'm pulling away,
it's because i think i fucked up
or it's because you did
but i'm too self-loathing
to think i deserve an apology

you think you're so cool,
because you support
all the good causes
but your self-declared integrity
and morality, and importance--

it's all meaningless;
you are a fucking bully,
whether you realise it
or not,
the kind of kid that says
"i hate hypocrites,"

as you preach about trust
whilst lying
through your razor-sharp teeth;
you tear through others
like slabs of meat,
a ruthless carnivore
indulging on others' self-esteem

i can't do this anymore,
can't pretend your words
are water off my back,
fuck it
if i wanted a shower
i'd go to the bathroom,

i don't need a shower
i'm already clean,
but you?
you're filthy, you disgust me
but i love you anyway
and that's why i can't do this

i'm sick of loving what makes me ill
so i'm not gonna talk,
not gonna listen,
not gonna offer myself up
for you to dig your knife and fork in.
i'm done with this.

madelinexxmolloy Mar 2017

Tens of millions of men, women and children murdered
But what do we care?
Genocide-systematically killing, raping, and harming
But what do we care?
We say "never again" that turned into "never again, again"
And twenty-thousand children born for one-hundred days of forced pleasure
Families ripped apart, homes destroyed, and murder-murder
We say it but do we get it?
Do we really GET it?
Do we really grasp the fact of people's lives being ended forcefully for no other reason than someone "disagrees" for no other reason than someone's "different
But what do we care?
Blue eyes, blonde hair, bright skin to the right
Brown eyes, black hair, dark skin to the left
Those on the right go home,
Those on the left no longer have homes for concentration camps are now their homes
The sent of freshly brewed lipton tea has now been replaced by the harsh fumes of zyklon-B
Unsure of their next meal, if you could call it that at all, unsure of their next beating, the next time they'll be raped, unsure of what'll be theirs last breath before death
Feeling unsure and not secure
But please tell me, what do we care?

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