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RatQueen Aug 9
My doctor says that I'm too fat
He never stops his barking
He may be right at the end of the day
But despite it all I'm starving

I have a hole inside me
I used to quell with spirits
I stopped but they still haunt me
They'll **** me, so I fear it

******* used to cure this all
but no one could keep up
then one day I felt all yucky
abandoned all pursuits of "love"

I had a year way back when
Where all I did was party
I stuck weird things up my nose
But I ran out of money

When I was a teenager
my dad called me a *****
I got upset and cut myself
but quickly I grew bored

I drove fast around tight corners
to feel the breeze on warm damp nights
but today behind a wheel
I feel paralyzed

My doctor says to stab myself
so I don't eat too much
maybe if I'm smaller
I won't cringe when I am touched

But even as I sit here
and to food I feel averse
I know deep down inside myself
I'll always have this curse

I wonder what I'll crave now
these meds they make me sick
maybe just attention
will be how I get my kicks

I was once the right shape
it wasn't long ago
and even then I noticed
how people come and go

Will I ever feel full
to the wind I'm *******
I take up all this space
and still there's something missing
Oh how it must itch-
The lady whose body is
Covered in hard plaster.
Finely carved face of alabaster.

The miracle maiden!
The matriarch with
The eternal smile
Could never feed
A hungry child

The dress she wears is a
Skin tight suit.

Shield atop shield.
Even in the heat.
her sweet baby ****
Burning beneath
Layers upon layers.

Prayers upon prayers
Would only save her.
Skyla Jul 20
I'm somebody's daughter
Made of sugar and gasoline 
I wash away the filth until I bleed 
Desperate to be clean

I'm somebody's daughter

A small and hungry crime scene 
Made of guilt and strawberry cream 
But I never cry in my dreams

I'm somebody's daughter

Trying to become untaught 
They love the sound of sorry 
Even when they know I'm not

Sincerely, someone's daughter
B Apr 27
20th birthday
I've forgotten when to breathe
and my mother is my only friend
the last one yet to leave.
I am feverish skin
to March's first chill breeze
tripping over, again and again
afraid to pull my hands from my sleeve.
20 years old now
a full on woman in sheep's clothing
but I don't know how
to live life without loathing
love, and bills, and here and now's.
Myself, pulling on a window that's already closing.
In his reflection I am inadequate
He casts onto me a veil of insecurity
Ordained with cheap mascara and gloss
I'm a concubine in the eyes of all

I play second fiddle to dissolvable filler
To bombshell bras and Facetune
So I give in to my materialistic desires
And I weep at my stellar mediocrity

They have recast my name with phrases
Categorized by a pornographic imperative
Petite brunette or ***** blonde
Our cuts of meat all marketed the same.

The rat race of womanhood has no victor
The treadmill will keep going
Only when I'm aging and forgotten
Will I breathe the fresh air of youth

Though still, I do not hate the other women
Only the man who sold me their lives.
I am so tired
monique ezeh Nov 2022
i am a woman with pain built in.

lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &

removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.

washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.

warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––

i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
her sun spots bragged of
summers spent reckless
and her silver locks of
once box dyed glory.
her drooping skin bragged of
first kisses and a hundred men’s touch—
from her so-called “glory days.”
her plump figure bragged of
children bore and
lovers loved and
a thousand lives lived.
in this old age I deemed her ageless—
having lived more in one lifetime
than most could dream to do in four.
Emily Oct 2022
If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.
Filomena Aug 2022
Have you met Ophelia?
I saw her at the bank
Withdrawing all her interest.
And if I may be frank,

It seemed none could appeal to her,
And as she stacked her notes
Her visage had the look of death.
I hope her asset floats.
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 53.
Inspired by a book I was given
by an anonymous staff person.
coqueta Mar 2022
A girls beauty only exists as an extant form of a decay
The ****** gets down on her knees
to pray
that God delivers her a good good man
to come, and demand, for her hand in marriage
A girls beauty will never exist as long as her lips haven’t tasted true love’s kiss
her legs are long and bare and
her face is rosy, fair
and that silky hair can be wound around his rough calloused fingers
The beauty of girlhood is being used
Desiring love and being pursued
And if he doesn’t think I’m beautiful? Do I have any worth at all?
Lost innocence is a beauty (a sweet sweet tragedy) so utterly unattainable, (only for those girls with their blue bell eyes and their waif-ish thighs) I’m left to wonder
am I even a woman
at all?
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