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topacio 2d
who still needs to hunt
when injured,
so do you.
need to fix repair move
faster than ever
on your own
without your pack.

laser movement
in the dark
blind to whats ahead,
instincts guiding you
more than you know,
passed down
in your bones
from the
generations before.
Jade 2d
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault, human trafficking, misogyny and religious references some may find offensive. ⚠️

Your mental health is my priority.

god creates the
forbidden fruit
but has not yet
deemed it forbidden

historians debate

is it an apple
or a pomegranate

it is a pomegranate  

deeply inspired
views it as the prototype
for female genitalia
doomed to rot
beneath the glare of
his brimstone pupils

when cut in half


engorged with


burgundy secretions

teardrops of seed

and let there be blood

god declares

and let the women
bleed as softly
as the pomegranate

and god looks upon
all that he has made
and it is
very good

until the serpent arrives

the serpent is not
a man

is only a devil
because god says so

is only a devil
because she is actually
a woman

reptilian lamina winks
in the amber light
as she scalps the innards
of the pomegranate with her
flickering tongue

"come child

reach for the fruit
like it is your anatomy

and then get the **** outta here

do not let god
fool you into
believing your body
is your own

because it isn't"

arms ache
as they stretch
towards the foliage

a woman is not meant to reach

is not meant
to desire

to attain what she is entitled to

what is deservedly hers

hands meet fruit

hands are immediately

seared upon
their first touch

leaving blistered pirouettes

this is the invention
of the fingerprint

eve's daughters
inherit her burns
until time's end

wear them like jewels
above their knuckles

to the patriarchy

never to forget the hour
their mother was cast out
from the garden of eden

god thunders

your body belongs to me
to man
and his pleasure

a pleasure you do not deserve

isn't it funny how
man and men
can both be plural

while woman just doesn't
have the same ring
as women

because one male
is superior
to every female

women are not made
in the image of god
they are made
in the image of man

god steals Adam's rib
to make eve
from something
that is easily breakable

like *****

like rope-burned neck
at the gallows

like voice



tuned out

women are not to speak
but are to serve

to beget more men

do you think mary's
was a choice

do you think there
is a reason
god chose a son
and not a daughter

do you think there
is a reason
lot's wife
was not given a name

god does not

he also does not

the moment
eve tries to reclaim
what is hers


weeps down her thigh

****** bruised
between god's fangs
as if he were
the pomegranate

there is no softness here

let there be


let there be

gloved fingers


let there be
witch trials
trafficked bodies

and let it
be the woman's fault

let women
for the sins of man

perhaps god
did not intend
for it to be this way

perhaps god did not
these horrors

but he did not
stop them

god does not

he also does not


how can he not love

the very woman
who is named after
the sunset


isn't it sad
that eve
was never taught
to capitalize the first letter of her


not even her name
belonged to her
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They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Draupadi's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.
Betty 5d
Toughened glass

Women like me

Still around

You just can't see

We pick up names

As we go through life

Daughter Mother Sister Wife

Our role is often mapped and clear

Then we get to fifty and disappear

We want to shout I'm over here

We're not glam, we're not glum

Just somebody's mum

A little bit shopworn

But we did our bit

We brought up the kids

Took a whole load of sh*t

So please don't ignore us

We matter too

Just you wait till it happens to you

And it will!
Stewie 6d
I am beautiful.
I am bold.
My face will always show what my mouth can’t say.
I’m quiet and introverted.
I shy away from attention.
I’m ****.
I am fierce.
I dance like nobody is watching.
I march to the beat of my own drum.
Boy, can I cry.
I feel everything and everyone around me.
I am a sponge of emotion.
I am smart.
I am quick minded and witty.
And my sense of humor can light up a room.
I am a great listener until I’m not.
I care an awful lot.
I’m stubborn.
I’m always right.
I know everything better than everyone.
I am rich both in my heart and in my brain.
I love harder than anyone I’ve known.
I am a boss *** woman.
I can catch on quicker than my counterparts.
I sleep too long.
I love God.
I am worthy of happiness.
I have a mothering nature.
I am kind.
I am compassionate.
I am a shooting star.

        Full of light. Full of rage. Full of passion.
Ashley in a nut shell but don’t blink too quick, or I’m gone.
These walls are too close together
their shoulders are too broad

The ceiling is too low
for their high egos

I am a big girl
in a small room

where no one moves
sometimes its hard to make room for yourself
kiran goswami May 18
There was a ****** in my nation today,
There was a ****** in my nation yesterday.
But unlike the other time, my nation did not cry.
It did not bang the doors of justice,
My nation did not try.
The criminals sat on thrones and proved themselves innocent.
The innocent became guilty as they had only a few pennies and no more cent.
I did not see people cry,
I did not hear the pain
I did read the news where they said, 'The murderer fled by a train.'
I could not see the people hugging,
I could not see love,
but in my nation, I saw a dead, white-feathered dove.
The peace in my nation died,
the girl in my nation died.
The people in power laughed while the nation cried.
I saw the flag of my nation but all I saw was white.
I saw my nation's condition
but all I could do was to write.
So, I will tell you how there was a ****** in my nation yesterday,
and there was a ****** in my nation today.
men, they spend hours, days, weeks
seeking, searching, running
to the Promised Land.

their bones, cracking from strain
their bodies, weakening
as their humours run dry.

all in the hope of finding roses,
delicate in petal, soft to the touch
this is where they will lay their heads.

but what if Mother Nature were to rear
her wiry head?
leaving weeds, un-ripped from their homes.

i suppose the weaker men would get lost,
unaccustomed to rich thorn,
glorious thickets, never ending forests

our great Mother, she laughs
as they trip and fall,
tears falling, rendering our grass fertile

they’ve made their bed now, she supposes
now they must lie in it.
Don't call me "hot",
call me beautiful.

I am a woman,
not a cup of tea.
Is it just me who gets bothered by being called "hot" or seeing boys call other girls "hot"?
Women are water
gentle enough to give life
but deep enough to take it

beautiful enough to call home
but strong enough to destroy it
This is my first poem, i just joined recently so hi!
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