#itsnotfunny - Hello Poetry

To: the "man" with the gym-floor philosophy. From: The vacancy you tried to occupy. Date: Today, right after the punchline. Thank you for your recent contribution To the ongoing archive of things i have to survive. Not to mention: the drama. the other boy. the comments. the exit strategy. the map on her arms. the stage turned stampede. the playing nice i have to do. the distance of my chair v. the exit. the "text me when you're home" ritual. We, the Women of this World, have reviewed your "motto" regarding the weight of hands and the specific math of holding someone down. The Board of Directors found it “predictable,” yet "vibrant as a neon orange." we noticed you opted for the "classic predator rehearsed smile™"- a bold choice for a man who looks like a cheap costume trying to play the part of a person. Regarding your question: “why aren’t you laughing?” Please find the attached spreadsheet Of every woman who has ever heard The rattle of a cage and been told It was actually a symphony. You’ll notice the "humor" column is empty. You’ll notice the "exit calculation" column Is overflowing in long, jagged strips. Please be advised: We are currently over-capacity On poems about the way the room goes cold. Our inventory of "citrus-stained warnings" Is at an all-time high Because you keep insisting On peeling the fruit before it’s offered. If you find the repetition tiresome, If you find this "rape poem" a bit redundant, Please refer to the previous six thousand years Of feedback we’ve provided. We would love to close this ticket. We would love to stop the harvest. But until you learn that a punchline Isn't a substitute for permission, We will remain in the wings— Scrubbing the scent of your "funny" Off our skin until it bleeds.

0

Apr 9

Apr 9, 2026 at 9:19 PM UTC

sd_nerd27

Regarding Your Recent Feedback on My Trauma (A **** Poem) (2)

To: the "man" with the gym-floor philosophy. From: The vacancy you tried to occupy. Date: Today, right after the punchline. Thank you for your recent contribution To the ongoing archive of things i have to survive. Not to mention: the drama. the other boy. the comments. the exit strategy. the map on her arms. the stage turned stampede. the playing nice i have to do. the distance of my chair v. the exit. the "text me when you're home" ritual. We, the Women of this World, have reviewed your "motto" regarding the weight of hands and the specific math of holding someone down. The Board of Directors found it “predictable,” yet "vibrant as a neon orange." we noticed you opted for the "classic predator rehearsed smile™"- a bold choice for a man who looks like a cheap costume trying to play the part of a person. Regarding your question: “why aren’t you laughing?” Please find the attached spreadsheet Of every woman who has ever heard The rattle of a cage and been told It was actually a symphony. You’ll notice the "humor" column is empty. You’ll notice the "exit calculation" column Is overflowing in long, jagged strips. Please be advised: We are currently over-capacity On poems about the way the room goes cold. Our inventory of "citrus-stained warnings" Is at an all-time high Because you keep insisting On peeling the fruit before it’s offered. If you find the repetition tiresome, If you find this "rape poem" a bit redundant, Please refer to the previous six thousand years Of feedback we’ve provided. We would love to close this ticket. We would love to stop the harvest. But until you learn that a punchline Isn't a substitute for permission, We will remain in the wings— Scrubbing the scent of your "funny" Off our skin until it bleeds.

51

today, a man laughed. he tossed out a "motto", "if one can hold you down... then two can **** you." he said it with that rehearsed, plastic smile, the kind that expects you to join in on the joke of your own disappearance. “it’s funny,” he said, and I wondered when I became a vacancy, a space to fill, a fruit to be peeled and discarded before the juice even hits the floor. i am sitting in the wings and the words are under my skin, a sticky, cloying residue of a "motto" i didn’t ask to learn. i try to think of the next scene, but the air is thick with the math of how many hands it takes to break a person open. i am still sitting here now. the longer i stay, the more the room turns to acid. i feel it under my fingernails, the sticky, cloying residue of his "motto," a smell that won't wash off no matter how much water i use. no matter what soap i use. no matter how hard i scrub. no matter how red my skin turns. he thinks it’s a joke because he’s never been the one pressed against the wall, watching the rind be stripped away by someone who called it "funny." i am counting the seconds again. not just to leave the room, but to get away from the way he looked at my arms and saw a harvest he thought he could own. i can’t stop the loop. the sentence is a rind stuck between my teeth, bitter and impossible to swallow. i feel the rottenness of it creeping up my neck like a rash, the way his laughter felt like a hand on my shoulder that I wasn't allowed to shake off. he’s just standing there, vibrant and toxic as a neon orange, unaware that he has turned the simple act of breathing into a calculation of exits. i am sitting with the weight of it, feeling the safety peel away in long, jagged strips, leaving nothing but the pith— white, dry, and trembling— while he waits for me to find the humor in the hunt. i am standing here now, holding the leftover skin of the day like a witness who hasn't been called. i see the audience shifting again, ready for the "next" poem, the next fruit, the next kit, as if the telling is the tragedy and not the joke itself. ....well. scrub all you want; some stains are meant to be seen. maybe we won't need any more poems if you just listen to this one.

0

Apr 9

Apr 9, 2026 at 9:06 PM UTC

sd_nerd27

is this still funny? (A **** Poem) (1)

today, a man laughed. he tossed out a "motto", "if one can hold you down... then two can **** you." he said it with that rehearsed, plastic smile, the kind that expects you to join in on the joke of your own disappearance. “it’s funny,” he said, and I wondered when I became a vacancy, a space to fill, a fruit to be peeled and discarded before the juice even hits the floor. i am sitting in the wings and the words are under my skin, a sticky, cloying residue of a "motto" i didn’t ask to learn. i try to think of the next scene, but the air is thick with the math of how many hands it takes to break a person open. i am still sitting here now. the longer i stay, the more the room turns to acid. i feel it under my fingernails, the sticky, cloying residue of his "motto," a smell that won't wash off no matter how much water i use. no matter what soap i use. no matter how hard i scrub. no matter how red my skin turns. he thinks it’s a joke because he’s never been the one pressed against the wall, watching the rind be stripped away by someone who called it "funny." i am counting the seconds again. not just to leave the room, but to get away from the way he looked at my arms and saw a harvest he thought he could own. i can’t stop the loop. the sentence is a rind stuck between my teeth, bitter and impossible to swallow. i feel the rottenness of it creeping up my neck like a rash, the way his laughter felt like a hand on my shoulder that I wasn't allowed to shake off. he’s just standing there, vibrant and toxic as a neon orange, unaware that he has turned the simple act of breathing into a calculation of exits. i am sitting with the weight of it, feeling the safety peel away in long, jagged strips, leaving nothing but the pith— white, dry, and trembling— while he waits for me to find the humor in the hunt. i am standing here now, holding the leftover skin of the day like a witness who hasn't been called. i see the audience shifting again, ready for the "next" poem, the next fruit, the next kit, as if the telling is the tragedy and not the joke itself. ....well. scrub all you want; some stains are meant to be seen. maybe we won't need any more poems if you just listen to this one.

75

They haven't had an Asian In my favourite TV show If the next companion's ginge, then I'll **** Vincent van Gogh.

0

Mar 24, 2014

Mar 24, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC