#objectification
For the Men:
You will carry
my future child
A thousand men
Will grasp at you
While you scream for
Justice and peace.
If you show your
skin, you will pay
with your blood and
tears. If we let
one go the rest
will soon follow.
A little girl
will not be safe
we will own you
Till your last day.
Women's blood will
soon fuel my hate.
A mother's cries
We laugh at that.
You pump your legs,
and run away,
Your silent cries
ignored by all.
We hold you down
and force our love.
Even a child
will not be spared.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 12:56 PM UTC
For the Women:
Men grab women
like we are dolls
Alone we cry
for you to hear
heartbreak and fear.
My body is
not yours to keep.
Six feet under
crumbling dark earth,
our bodies rot.
While men have fun
we die alone
covered in blood,
***** and sweat.
We fight hard but
it's not enough.
Men grab women
like we are dolls.
You make us feel
alone and small.
Bodies buried
beneath the grass.
The dead will rise
angry and hurt.
Their thighs ******
cut from your lust.
May 11
May 11, 2026 at 12:53 PM UTC
Bartered
like stolen property—
and how dare I
have the audacity to breathe,
or the gall
to cry
over my humanity?
Beholden.
How dare I
exist?
I never agreed to be nothing
to make you feel
anything
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 5:59 PM UTC
There’s a piece of me
thrown in ungraspable territory
Forever captured by bigotry -
belonging to those who silently used me.
Unknowingly, I was greeting it -
Smiling as teachers witness absurdities
Thankful as they complimented my body
Proud when the shy guy finally touched me.
Little did I know it was demeaning
I’ve been deceived about the relevance of my skin
Not abused nor victimised
We’d laugh - so much it was normalised.
Later defiance sprang from envy
I’d bring a knife to the party, act a little sassy
I’d talk back when they chased me, wear a skirt insolently.
Just testing boundaries as they fancy my body -
may I help them **** off at the sight of me?
//
And after all that time there’s a piece in me
One part shame one part indignity
Forever confused and tranquilly fury.
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 4:45 PM UTC
Mama is bad
she doesn't look
at my painting
she hides her eye
behind the camera
and in her mind she makes
her own painting
of me
another Helena of me
with blood on her hands
an angry ******
with a cool belly
for hot men
a Confident-Blue
belly despite the voyeurs
at mummy's exhibition
who think they see me
while they fantasise
about a 'fille fatale'
pleasing them
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 2:20 AM UTC
i don't like being stared at,
or glorified,
or looked at like i'm just a showpiece—
almost like a mannequin?
like i'm supposed to do your bidding,
or abide by your ideals.
i don't like being looked at
the way one would look—
when they're judging you for the smallest of hook,
the tiniest of details.
no, you're just aggravating—
there's nothing romantic about that stare.
kinda like—
the difference between being seen
and just looked at on the surface.
what is wrong with my brain,
why can't you seem to judge that?
i wouldn't despise it
if you were to give me the longing glances,
or the ones filled with care,
the kind where i know
they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom—
like fingers on a shiny sphere.
don't objectify me.
i know my worth,
even though i forget it sometimes.
it's a vulnerability
i intend to show.
i’m not the prettiest—
that still doesn't give you the right to know.
i hold the discomfort,
i hold my identity.
feels like shattering,
the moment a wrong glance or a finger
touches any part of my skin.
it's complex.
i don't think you'll understand it.
i'm a human—
not a model,
not an art piece
held up for judging.
you know they’d look at the one you love
the way you do at me right now,
when i tend to swerve.
the severity of it— you wouldn’t know.
what it's like to be criticised,
judged,
given looks everywhere you go.
i still don't understand
why i face them.
more than half come from lust,
and barely a few from the place of love.
i don't shake hands,
afraid of what i’ll touch,
what you’ll feel—
and later think about.
god, i shiver at the mere thought.
too much.
i could be worshipped,
held by the right hands,
but the wrong eyes,
and the wrong views—
they almost always
**** up this land.
can't walk,
can't talk,
can't laugh,
can't show.
if i'm to exist like a stone,
why can't i hurl back
and simply clone
all that you’ve done
and all that you’ve said?
i've got those stares creeping up my skin,
like slithering worms underneath my shin,
smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat.
i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing.
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear.
for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream.
sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze.
i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare,
and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender,
but the way— the way— the way—
oh please, let me just disappear.
don’t look at me
if you only wish
to see me as an object.
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 12:59 PM UTC
Before she became a teen
she remained unseen
just another girl
lost in the world
now she’s hit puberty
now everybody sees
now they stare
they pretend to care
now she’s found fame
same picture different frame
the unwanted attention
the objectification
not ready for this
not had her first kiss
but predators lurk
they hide in the woods
she clings to her innocence
but has stumbled into womanhood
now she bleeds like the rest
burdened by chest
she’s not ready for this
she’s not ready for this
her best friends dad
now gives her the eye
she wishes she had
the ability to lie
to pretend all is okay
that it’s meant to be this way
but she wants to turn back
but the facts are the facts
she’s no longer a girl
no more a child
it is what it is
she’s not ready for this
just leave her alone
she’s not ready for this..
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 3:48 PM UTC
Pin her upon bulletin boards
like some poster of a prize to possess the crowd
putters past the perfect picture,
eyes across her breast
eyes averted from her breath:
for the smell reminds them she is not dead
she is something more she is their darkest moment she is aliv—
forget forget forget
They tied her with string, dulling pain
with sweet words, promises
of wealth
decay.
Maybe with time comes the slow death
of love, the dissolving
of once-revered offerings upon the shrine
of the meaning of "human"
on SALE. Gaze! Gaze upon
her line-marks of your so-called
respect slashing into her,
bands of red sash upon her pillars you, YOUR
hands suffocate,
deface that sweet taste of her crumbling of hash marks counting the days until the object falls to waste, discarded to die.
Years and years, again and again.
New posters, new pictures, new crowds.
forget forget forget
Dec 2, 2024
Dec 2, 2024 at 9:39 AM UTC
The winter breeze comes to rob the trees of their leaves.
With those leaves flows her light linen layer.
The shawl isn’t nearly enough to combat the cold,
So why would he be?
She shivers, the air’s frigidity insulting her sleek bronze surface.
“Let me hold you,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her eyes downcast and her knees pinch.
“Look at those beautiful eyes,” he says,
“Why don’t you will them to look into mine?”
She lifts them, heavy, and absently meets his.
Her lashes are frosted white.
The hypothermia wouldn’t take long to take her.
Her mind pleads, help, help, help,
But her thoughts seem to be freezing slowly at the same rate as her body.
Her lips tremble and crack as she separates them.
“Look at those beautiful lips,” he says, “Come here and let them meet mine”
She tightens the shawl to her skin, but it’s already lost all sense.
She’s already losing all sense.
“Don’t be ashamed,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her arms tense, but the light fabric seems fleeting from them.
Her light mind,
Fleeting from her…
His arms open,
“Come here, beautiful, why don’t you see?”
She whimpers, shakily, a plea:
“please.”
She crumples into his arms.
“You’re so beautiful, why don’t you see?”
“I don’t want to be beautiful,” she says,
She falls right through.
He was never there.
“I want to be alive.”
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 11:28 PM UTC
Objectified manifest's dimensional delineations are totally tangential to trajectory extant. Infinite possibility's exponentially extemporaneous eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology's perfectible ontology. It's sheer omnificent ubiquity. Manumission's vicarious recalcitrance to epistemological entelechy's maieutic had an exogamous homogeny with spatiotemporal telemetry's exigence. The basic fecundity of cosmic continuum's radix repartee's mesomerism becomes corporeally preternatural's impetus intrigue to intuitional intrepid.
Livid lucid lambent loquacious emanations that presage synergy's retrospectively retroactive to nuance fulgurous fulham's fulcrum. Cognizance categorical imperative's cognitive, clairaudience clairvoyance, omniscient omnipotent omnipresence. Unary's unbridled aorist actuator's ethology's entelechy. Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities to demagoguery. Hegira to Xanadu ne plus ultra exodus. Elan Vital's apotheosis. Hectic duty deontological probity. Noumenal sentience's irrefragably inevitable semantics. Pandemically phatic futurity fatidic to kitsch kithe. Chicanery dynamism's fealty!
I'm sorry Melan but I don't believe that we must lose track of our corporeal being's identity to experience the true essence of love. We should enhance each other's cognizance constituency.
Jun 1, 2024
Jun 1, 2024 at 9:36 AM UTC
to you, I am categorically a conquest
a notch to your belt, a benchmark to measure against
to you, I am metaphorically an object
to be played with, to be gazed upon
never seen as whole, never seen as real
only parts and pieces for your pleasure
Sure, I'll dance for you, I'll stand still for you
but you can't make stay in a cage
Sure, I'll **** you
but you can't make me love you
Mar 16, 2024
Mar 16, 2024 at 7:55 AM UTC
My lawyer comes in
with a very thick folder --
and I lie in it.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 3:22 AM UTC
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
color
until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.
Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.
Oct 21, 2022
Oct 21, 2022 at 9:14 PM UTC
Look at him through fluttering eyelashes
Be docile
Be his doll
Sweet, supple, submissive
Tell him of his brilliance
Tell him he's the only one
Let your thoughts become his words
His words, his brilliance
His
Not yours
What is his will be valued
You will be valued
For being his
Not yours
Speak up but not over him
Your thoughts are his words
His words his brilliance
Stay sweet, supple, submissive
His, not yours
You speak too much
Your lips are not meant to be used
Unless for him
and his pleasure
His, not yours
You think too much of your pain
Destitution of recognition
Unless it be in empathy of his pain
Yours will have no value
His, not yours
You spoke over him, not up
Your words are not valued
unless they become his brilliance
His, not yours
You are becoming autonomous
Remember who you are
Fluttering eyelashes
Docile
Supple body
Submission
Never your own
Only his
His, not yours
Aug 26, 2022
Aug 26, 2022 at 3:23 AM UTC
Slap, slap, the stickers
instantly turn my body --
into an object.
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 6:10 AM UTC
My hair is not a raven's wing,
A wave of black, a river whose
treacherous shores
you long to explore.
My ******* are no doves: soft and fluttering;
No Promised Land of milk and honey:
there is no one to welcome you home.
My stomach is not a valley of wonders
leading to a treasure so many men
have died for.
My eyes are not slanted windows to some
ancient Eastern wisdom; no obsidian pools
that many great warriors have drowned in.
My features are not exotic
My skin is not silken
My soul is not unknowable
My mind is not inscrutable
And my body is not your muse.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 8:43 AM UTC
Maybe I'm the dark brown eyes you stare into
The ones you see your reflection in
Maybe I'm the hand combing through your jet black hair
Or the voice in the wind on an empty rooftop bar
Maybe I'm the brain you treat lesser than yours
Or the body in the room that tells you that you're not alone
Maybe I'm the throbbing **** you leave red Mac lipstick stains on
Or the stern screams that remind you of your father
Maybe I'm the lips touching your left cheek
Or the fingers that fix your nose ring
Who am I if not for all the times I've been cheated on?
Why should I be more than a pincushion
For all the times your dad didn't tell you he loved you?
Who would I be to all of you if I weren't
eyes,
hands,
barely a brain,
a ****
and lips
?
Who am I if not a string of traumas
Walking my way through a path paved with eggshells and broken glass?
Who am I?
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 5:32 AM UTC
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.
(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.
but in thirty seconds
i crash.
i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.
i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.
and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****
Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.
my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.
these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
We aren't,
after all,
objects
you fit into
the shape of your
wants and needs or
whatever kind of life
you lead us
and you turn me
like a marvel
like a caveman
discovering
this light
and then you switch
I am not the type
I am not the end of the game
I am not the comfort
You seek.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 6:55 AM UTC
She is organized in a way that is unfathomable,
An alluring contradiction with the eyes of a madwoman
On the body of a laid-back cat.
You try to ****** her but she is everywhere above you
And every night when you meet her
She already has you trapped inside with everyone else
who is propelled by her many solar systems.
You watch her when she appears dormant.
You can try to calculate her patterns,
But since you met her she has worn nine different faces,
And she dresses as too many species to name
Yet you may think she is tame.
This is true, she does less damage than she is capable of,
So test her limits but remember that
The universe has no edge.
She is curved and always expanding.
You can’t decide if she is too fat or just the right size
Because she is shapeless and swimming before your eyes.
Her stars are many but her constellations are uneventful.
She bursts her stars like whiteheads
And swallows herself up in the muddy, black potholes left behind.
Her galaxies overlap too much to be teased apart.
Each sun has its own ideas about gravity
And claims each others’ planets as their own.
This is not a harem though for she is not polyamorous.
Worse, they are tessellating love triangles.
Love for her is like politics only there is only one wing, one branch
And all parts are just a sum of her.
She couldn’t love you even if she wanted to.
There is already too much for her to maintain,
Too much to spread evenly across your small body
And too much for even God to see.
You’re not an astronomer, a telescope is a peep show to you
You lie in your hammock seeking instant gratification, all of her all at once.
Even if she were simply one of those stars
She wouldn’t travel light-years for you.
You think you know her, the brightest star above you,
The one you stare at thinking she is staring at you,
The one who flips her hair like the other girls you like,
Who all share the burden of giving you
The satisfaction of having something to flirt at,
Something glorious to form into feeble prey
With your small, shallow eyes, and which you use to glorify
Your own simple machine of a body.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 7:22 PM UTC
**** Toy
Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,
Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,
It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,
Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,
Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,
Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,
Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,
Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,
In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,
He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,
Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
i always wondered why women get “dolled up”
but men “suit up”
women put on layers of makeup and suffocate themselves wearing corsets
to become an object that a man will like to look at and use
but men clean up and dress professionally
it certainly says a lot about our society
the white woman’s 77 cents to the man’s dollar
and even less for the minority women
the media glorifies women of size 00
which is quite literally less than nothing
women are supposed to be so small
that they are less than zero
science tries to define a woman’s purpose as producing children and taking care of the home
but what about the women who are not fertile and live on the streets?
they will always ask a woman “how does she do it all?”
but when was the last time a man was asked the same question
when both of them have a job and a family to balance
men are not expected to assume the subordinate role
because society deems women to be inferior to men
when women continue to outscore men on the SATs and reading tests
but those men will be given the leadership positions the women rightfully deserve
the objectification
the classification
the learned gender roles
the discrimination
all empower the patriarchy
but we can dismantle it
one empowered woman at a time
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:54 AM UTC
A warm wool neck filled with pins and needles,
rips a volcanic eruption of string from me.
fixing my china is fun to do but
not with a sledgehammer smashing me in pieces.
An golden ornament is once desired,
Only providing blueprints of a destroyed home.
A flower is fair, beautiful but pure
and even there are days we stare more at the thorns.
Necklaces choking a porcelain doll,
with movements which are dead but a creative mind.
Plotting curiously note after note,
I feel like an object and to you I am one.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC