#rapepoem
I watched her there
Standing from afar
Overlooking the horizon of a star
Darkness and voidness sorrounded her but surrenderee will someday surrender on her.
She ain't a knight with a shining armor of superiority.
She ain't a treatment that concealed every bruise of brutality.
She ain't a fantasy that hides the reality.
Cant you see? She's pretending, not being she.
Tons scratch, bruise and scars hidden within thee.
Strong lady.
Impregnable, inviolable and unassailable.
Strong outside yet fragile inside.
But then a youth stepped into her and bathed into her darkness.
Youth says to her, to the depression bearer: "What ails thee strong lady? That thou woe thy eye?"
Strong lady sat herself down and weeps, sunken cheeks and salted liquids run down her face, she speaks and says: "I should've sleep in peace young youth for I suffered desecrate and torment, aid not naebody, and father used and abused thee"
Yet, young youth says: "Hush down depression bearer henceforth I shall build thy walls and protect thee, thou shalt not say those words for I shall follow thee"
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
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.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:19 PM UTC
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.
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:06 PM UTC