my thoughts jumble inside my head
i circle my seat one too many times
like a mutt in a doghouse
until it feels just right
and i finally sit
i pick up my pencil
i have to sharpen it exactly four times
before i decide its good enough for writing
as i sit in class
my mind begins conjuring
i think deep and hard
about things i might have done
but don't remember
i suppress the thoughts
ignore the compulsions
do something once
instead of multiple times
but it all just leads
the same way back again

once you dig the razor in too deep
you know youve crossed a line
in more ways than one

physically;
youve cut deeper than
you ever have before

and then
mentally;
you cannot go back now

a man is not a boy
who tells his female classmates
she cant play football
because she is a she
he doesn't tell a girl
that her favorite color cant be blue
because it is a boys color
a man is not a boy
because a man does not whistle
when a pretty girl walks by
doesn’t shout a comment at a woman
simply going for a run
a man is not a boy
because a man
does not make a woman
the punchline to their sick jokes
real men do not victimize themselves
for their own wrongdoing
real men know how to follow the bare minimum
real men know how to act
know how to coexist with a female
and woman appreciate real men.

the red bead bracelet
is a bracelet i made myself,
with the razors of my pencil sharpeners,
the beads of blood covering my wrist,
the red blood being the sole reason
i dont show my wrists without being covered
by some sort of sweater or jacket
because if i don't
i get made fun of or questioned
i am asked, why?
why did i pierce my clean, ****** wrists
with driving razors through my skin
the answer is because
i wish i weren't here.
because i don't feel
loved enough to not do it
i am ill, yes, I know that by now,
my therapy sessions prove it
the calls up to the office prove it
me, a kid on suicide watch in my own home
prove it all.
i can hardly keep my door shut
without getting yelled at by my parents
i know i am ill
but i am not
the deranged monster i am made out to be
that is what the red bead bracelet is for.

to be a woman is to perform
to learn to dress for men,
to perform for the male gaze
to be asked by aunts,
“when am i going to get grandchildren?”
and to be told by uncles
that ive grown in all the right places
im not even able to look at the clothes
that hot hands had burnt through
touching, feeling, squeezing
remembering their hands on me
i don't want revenge,
i just want to take a shower
his lips curl into a whistle as i walk the street
“looking good, baby”
im wearing sweats and a hoodie
“smile more!”
make me laugh.
i don't feel like it right now, i say
“it'll be quick, please” he replies back
and i'm left feeling disgusted the next day
maybe i'll take another shower.
scrolling on my phone, a cute video of a little girl
I go to check the comments
“game is game”
“if she can bleed she can breed”
i close my phone, scared what this world has come to
my friend tells a story about how she got *****
and crazy enough, we all relate
and with girls we've never even met before
bonding over our **** cases
“don’t sit like that,” says my grandmother
“it's not lady-like.”
it doesn't matter how far i slouch in my seat
how much i manspread
even if its not lady-like, he’ll do it anyways
because he takes ******* as an invitation
even from a young girl
who doesn't even know how to count all the way to fifty
“dont tell your parents– it's our secret”
hands cover my mouth as i tell myself it's normal
this is what family does, what men do
and suddenly i'm too afraid to look at my own father
i talk to a guy, he's funny
and then he makes a **** joke
i thought you were one of the good ones
foolish
i live each day in fear
is it safe to walk out?
no, we can't live there
the ****** assault cases are high.
when will we ever be free?
when will women be equal to men
and not just equal to pleasure?
filled with rage, i remind myself
i cannot do anything.
because
to be a woman is to perform