"catcalling" poems
It does not brighten up my day
it just makes me wanna shoot myself.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Sugar and spice and everything nice,
Wolverine claws and a venomous bite,
Armed to the teeth for a ***** fight:
This is what teenage girls are made of.
Maybe I fall in love too easily,
But I’m just sixteen.
And I’m just sixteen but
When you cat call me and I pretend not to hear you,
You call me catty as if it’s surprising.
When you wolf whistle at me and I ignore you,
You call me names that aren’t PG.
I’m just sixteen but I’ve got news for you:
I’m a she-wolf, far from domesticated so
Whistling will do nothing for you.
I don’t answer the call of any man, because
I’m a lioness, and every time you catcall me
You forget who does the hunting.
You need reminding, to be put in your place.
You’re a predator but I’m not your prey-
No, you’re a predator but I’m much, much
Much higher up on the food chain.
Whistle and call all night long,
I’ll chew you up and spit you out
Like the kind of bubble gum that isn’t worth a trash can.
I’d call you a pig, but pigs usually have a
Higher IQ than you do.
My bones are made of titanium, of Adamantium, and
My rage came from the cosmos, and I control hurricanes with the water in my lungs.
I am catty,
And I am a *****
But you are a nobody,
Food for the vultures and
A piece of furniture to sharpen my claws on.
You may be a knife, but my heart is a diamond.
I am a diamond, and you are made of fossil fuels.
We are both the product of years of pressure,
But I took my disasters and made myself beautiful.
You let yourself become ugly, nowhere to go
Except standing on corners late at night,
Pollution spilling from your mouth and your eyes.
Leave me alone.
That’s not me being ‘hard-to-get,’ no,
That’s my wolf howl and the growl of my inner lioness.
Leave me alone,
Or else.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
it's unnerving how easily a pair of eyes strip me down
and take away every layer of defense
I have built up over the years.
hey sweetie, why don't you come over here?
because I don't want to, because you're repulsive
and your voice is scary and I felt your eyes on me
from the instant I crossed the street and I was hoping
you wouldn't speak.
want me to show you a good time?
but I was having the best time before I knew you existed,
when I was still just a person walking home
and the silent threats you make hadn't made it to
the horizon of my mind
**** what you doing walking around with hips like those?*
hips like these belong to my mother and
her mother and all of the women that have come
before me. in my body I possess history and blood
so strong it was only ever spilled during times of war.
how dare you. attempt to take that strength and power and pride
away from me. don't you know that I am magic,
that my body exists as art only
I should be allowed to admire
who gave you permission to steal from god's temple?
[I still see the dark look in your eyes
when you said that to me, the emptiness of
your pupils haunt me. they say that you see
me as nothing more than a body, a corpse.
someone to walk over.
someone to conquer.
you licked your lips and winked, the
wrinkles in your skin were clear even in the dark
and I could see that your two front teeth were
missing, so now I can't stop having nightmares
you grabbing me and tearing me apart, using
the same legs you whistled at as toothpicks]
*why are you walking so ******* fast?*
because you are terrifying. because I know
despite how brittle your bones may appear
there is a large chance if you catch me I won't
escape. because the risk of not escaping is an
automatic death to me in every sense of
the word. because I have friends, and they have
told me how their bodies were pillaged at the
hands of men like you.
*who the **** do you think you are?*
I think I am an island and I wish you
wouldn't insist on being so intrusive.
**** you too, *****
I just want to go home. I just want to go home.
why can't you let me do that?
you're not even that pretty anyway
when I met up with my best friend
she hugged me
and said I smelled like vanilla,
that I got more beautiful over the summer,
and that boys are going to lose their minds
when they see me.
my mother shows me off
boastfully, brags about my small waist like it
is a trophy, tells all my family that I am
peligrosamente hermosa,
dangerously beautiful.
and I believed them until I met you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away
there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.
is this a literal housewarming
i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell **** and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.
i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.
i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.
i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.
i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ****** i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.
ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.
a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
I am so mad that I have to live in a world where
**** jokes are funny
catcalling is normal
touching with no permission is not a big deal
and where boys complain that they have to ask for consent
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
it’s windy i think,
at least the windows are rattling.
the men in hard hats,
yellow motes off in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison,
they scale the façade
of the contralateral building.
they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails.
it’s early i think,
though the lights are always on.
they’re fluorescent, staining,
unflattering colouration, rinse
your skin to poverty,
to jaundice.
i’m here because of pills
i’m here because school is out,
i’m here because i’m tired
and i’m here because of you.
flowers sit at the side,
already dry upon purchase.
gifted awkwardly;
do we give flowers to a man?
a boy in sheets, foolish drunkard,
balloons with helium
to lift my spirits.
its lonely i think,
though it’s filled with people.
wristcutter, lupus, chemo
all thrown into one.
we’re what’s left post-production,
left to sit in an outlet store;
buy me for half-price
or else half an hour of company.
i’m the young one,
nurses scan me with motherly eyes,
the radiator warmth,
their rounded bosoms,
‘you remind me of someone’.
at twelve to three, she washes me,
asks me to lift my *****
so she can get at the two-day grime
of indolence.
it’s sad here i think,
at least the television is boring.
daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bedsheets gain weight;
even the balloon sags
in heavy misery,
nothing is mine.
sleep comes in fits
and starts in blankness.
it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where hope had perished.
you haven’t come,
i knew that you wouldn't.
it’s hard to blame you,
what with my post-use pinings
long after you’d given up
and the way i act familiar
after treating you like a stranger.
i long to leave here,
so much the windows are rattling.
i’m here because i am
i’m here because of my job,
i’m here because i’m tired
i’m tired because of you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
I am sorry for the:
Unsolicited **** pics
Request for nudes
Catcalling
Inappropriate or creepy comments
Failing to listen
Acting without asking
Emotional manipulation
Emotional unavailability
Approaching you to practice game
Shaming your sexuality
Meanwhile glorifying my own.
Laws governing your body
Calling you beautiful before
Brilliant
Speaking over/behind/beneath you
Lust in my eyes
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
How dare society make us women feel like
Our very own bodies is a prison,
To be locked up behind the metal bars of our *******
Tied up by the chains of our curvy figures
And the sentence lying between our thighs.
And the sentence is brutal.
Consent is no longer existent
When the *** is too tempting for a man to say no
And for you to say no.
Our butts slapped,
Chests groped,
Cheeks pinched,
Thighs squeezed,
In this prison we had the decency to call our own body
We are handcuffed to the degrading appetite of a man.
Women are not a display of things to touch
We are not a dessert menu for a man’s hunger
To be ordered by catcalling:
Want a taste of a woman’s behind?
**** that ***
A taste of ****
Oh, baby, put on a show for us!
Or just the full course meal-
Hey girl, ow ow owwww!
It is about time we strong women break free.
The jailor of men- I stole the key.
It is about time we change out of our prison uniforms of
Bikinis and mini skirts and stilettos
And break down the locks that confined us.
Our prison sentence is just about up,
And when we are let loose,
Us women will no longer stand for such debasing behaviors.
And when we’re free,
It’ll be time to teach the men a little lesson
This cage of our body does not define us, boys,
Maybe try finding the prisoner behind the bars-
Her personality,
Charming smile,
And brilliant intellect,
Instead of demeaning our existence,
Objectifying our importance-
We are not your tools, your toys.
We are humans, too, you know,
With- get this- feelings.
Try manners and kindness rather than
Feeling and groping your way to a woman’s heart.
We are not a play museum- we are the artifact,
The masterpiece- Mona Lisa, Starry Night, the Sistine Chapel-
You must stand behind the red velvet ropes and perform
What the English language calls respect,
With a thing also known as consent.
This- my body- is also known as my body,
It is not his, it is not hers, and most importantly,
It is not yours.
Please try to understand this- I know, it’s super complicated.
And if you gain anything from this, let it be this:
We are not here to satisfy you-
Women are not prisoners to a man’s every need.
We are not objects- no-
And we deserve to be heard.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Just a minute left before I should pinball out of my building doors
and speed over past the new high riser,
gust of wind pushing against my little body,
tiny amongst these buildings going up.
My eyes switch between the time and the streets,
My feet fall soft and I’m safe.
The trains not here yet and then it is,
and then I sit and I rip my book out of
my lunch bag, ticket tucked under my bookmark
In case the conductor don’t see me
I’ve been reading about the golden state killer.
Rye’s a five minute warning and then
I’m speeding out of another door down
the stairs past the elderly,
across one of the many ****** Port Chester
streets difficult to cross but I’m walking
my legs dart fast past the head shop and the bread shop
and my nose is filled with sweet and sour.
I walk faster- avoiding the CEO
he rides the same train and I don’t want to talk.
So I march forward and don’t look back.
I get closer and mentally flip off the line of five short men
catcalling me in Spanish, all the while peeking in to the brisa marina window
to see if there’s anything my herbivorous mouth could swallow,
but i don’t break my stride.
They’re practically a butcher anyway.
I climb the stairs to the entrance, stepping beyond the dead baby bird carcass
I was hoping some other animal would consume yesterday
and the avocado shell that would have been good to bury it with.
I try to shake the thought of impending doom as I swipe myself in
Still going as fast as i can so that I don’t have to hold the door open for the CEO
Call me petty, but I do enough of his bidding on a day to day
And I ascend to age 5 years for 10 hours.
And then I run home just to do it all over again the next morning.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC
Here you stand blowing raspberries
at my phonemic skills.
Please close your lips. Just listen.
Learn of bilabial trills.
You may call me an animal
for my alveolar clicks,
for in America its only real use
is for catcalling chicks.
And not many understand
a velar implosive stop,
that the words are the gurgle
of a doughnut shop cop.
And yes, my pharyngeal fricative
sounds like something's amiss.
But its not always contempt,
like some puppet show hiss.
So, if you just could excuse
my pulmonic ingressive,
I promise, If it feels like it hurts,
I will be singly expressive.
I guess all I can say
is that when you hear what I say,
remember, it more than just words
that I try to convey.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
I never won a thing
not even a coconut
but
I did have fun
though I watched as the sun went down
with a frown on my face
transitory
waiting for the next story
the new day
more play
fun and games
catcalling names at the girls
little pearls on the beach.
Yesterday
cannot reach its hands out to me
but I can see it
hiding in the corner
banging on the drum
waiting for some more fun
cap guns and candy floss
deck chairs
no cares.
Tossing and turning in these dreams I am burning
underneath the bright sky
with a tear in my eye I awake
ache
and yesterday breaks open today.
I stay
in the fairground
when everyone's gone home
and the dream is long gone but the dreaming goes on
and the memories return where I burn on the beach
out of reach of today
in the Yes
of the yesterday
I remain.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
you’re never fully dressed without a smile
is that why models pout so much
to make themselves that much more alluring?
i’m not sure
i can’t think over the sound
of people catcalling
the world’s best dressed woman
because she doesn’t want to smile
i don’t want to smile
i’m not your pan am sunbeam
to brighten up your journey through the day
all i wanna do is catch my bus,
go home, and fingers crossed
i won’t start crying on the way
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is hanging open.
I sit here and feverishly type, gathering momentum
To swing the creative cavalry inside my mind forth
And to **** all that throws itself in front of my periphery,
So desperately catcalling my attention.
I live in a creative vacuum,
From the hum of the fan
And the slamming of the doors,
To the static from the TV set
And the voices. Those voices.
I feel there is a poem in me
Or a song,
That will claim the hearts of others
And tug on the hems of their peripheries
Just as these homely distractions do to me.
Until then I must write and write harrowingly.
I must disregard the rules set down by centuries of genius
And throw back the paradigms put forth
By every raised eyebrow and polite accolade.
I am only twenty-one and I have not yet felt the ache of age
But I can feel the atrophy bite in my bones,
Making me cower at this transient life
And again I find myself at a desk by the window
Feverish, so feverish.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
#Growingupagirl, I was taught that I shouldn't like cars, or superheros, or sports. I should like Barbie's, clothes and makeup.
#Growingupagirl, I was taught that if a boy teases or bully's you, he obviously likes you. So you should let him. Don't stand up for yourself.
#Growingupagirl, I was taught to never trust a stranger. Everyone was a potential kidnapper or a ******
#Growingupagirl, I was told to always be back before dark otherwise I could end up dead in a ditch.
#Growingupagirl, I was told not to wear any revealing clothes otherwise, I would "provoke" a ********* It's completely my fault if I get *****
#Growingupagirl, I was told to take catcalling from men twice my age as "compliments".
#Growingupagirl, I was told that periods are something that should be kept a secret. God forbid a boy ever found out.
#Growingupagirl, I was taught that I needed to look like the girls in the magazines and the TV.
#Growingupagirl, I was taught that you should dress up to impress boys.
#Growingupagirl, I was told that my main goal in life should be to get married to a man and have a family and be a housewife. Not pursue my own dreams. Not make my own money.
#Growingupawoman, I like whatever the hell I want, and don't care about other's opinions.
#Growingupawoman, I learned to never take anything from anyone. Always stand up for yourself.
#Growingupawoman, I realized that I shouldn't be taught to fear men. Men should be taught not to be rapists.
#Growingupawoman, I learned not to be scared half to death whenever I'm walking alone. I know how to defend myself.
#Growingupawoman, I wear whatever the hell I want. How is an article of clothing, "provoking"? Men need to learn to control themselves.
#Growingupawoman, I realized catcalling is completely degrading. Never take it as a compliment.
#Growingupawoman, I realized periods are a natural thing that have happened since the beginning of mankind. Never be ashamed. Be proud.
#Growingupawoman, I know that I need to accept myself. I don't need to be a dainty, scrawny little thing to be beautiful.
#Growingupagirl, I know that I don't need to impress anyone. If I want to dress up, and feel pretty, I'm doing it for myself. No one else.
#Growingupawoman, I may not know what I want to do with my life yet, but I know it's more than being a cute little housewife. I have so much potential. I know I do. I'm a woman. I don't need a man to swoop in and save the day. I can save the day myself. I can be anything I want to be. It'll just be harder, since we live in a male dominated world. But that's okay. I love a good challenge.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Rest upon your chamber,
Fall down to haunting slumber;
Rise not to see the light of day,
But the last moments before the darkness'd decay.
A cold enough to freeze me whole,
Yet not rival the breeze of the winter Fool,
Chill me down to my spine,
Take from me what's near but never mine.
The icy winds won't soon fade,
Yet one can best it, the heat that I've made;
The heat of brethren's fissures and turmoil,
A fight within the mother soil .
What is he is never I,
What his damnation is far from my madness by;
He sought to give justice that he is a Father,
He can't even calm a raging child and a crying mother.
These words aren't meant to be spoken,
If it was, then it wouldn't have been written;
Alas, a naive child retires again,
With his horns half kept and his words half spoken.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
“Feminism shouldn’t exist” the guy next to me in class tells me with conviction in his eyes. “Females have more rights than men, their period just makes them whiney as ****
Well, you might not be a guy who walks around grabbing girls’ ***** believing that the clearly uncomfortable smile she send you, after you had starred non-stop at her for 5 minutes straight was consent.
Or a guy who comes up to a girl at prom not being able to understand that she doesn’t have a date because “all the guys I know would **** to pieces”
But just because you don’t do this (and THANK YOU for that), don’t ******* tell me these men don’t exsist, when each of every example in this poem is a different guy in my life..
You’re not the one who couldn’t walk down the school hals without 10 guys catcalling and starring at your *** all while you stare the floor.
I guess it’s my fault for wearing leggings or running pants, thinking it was a smart idea because I planned on going running later. Or at least that’s what I’m told at the guidance.
Unfortunately them not being ‘real pants’ doesn’t make your hands on them less real.
You’re not the one therefore starting to wear as baggy close as possible, because apparently that’s the way of escaping male gaze and more importantly hands, just to be met by comments going: “did you get up last minute this morning,” or “why did you give up trying? You used to dress so cute”
Trying on WHAT?
Yes, I am giving up, because I don’t know how to make you look into my eyes without giving me the elevator glance first.
But, I shouldn’t be complaining. Pretty girls don’t have anything to complain about – right?
They’re pretty, they’re going to do fine in life as long as the know how to take off their clothes.
Being pretty is the reason guys pay you attention, and you should be glad, cuz ugly get none.
So I’m taught to sit back and accept harassment, because the only other option is not getting is, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?
All while girls compete trying to become as pretty as me and all the other pretty girls.
Because it doesn’t matter how funny or smart you are as girl, if you aren’t pretty, it doesn’t really matter.
BUT, if you are, being smart is hot – not geeky, and any other slightly not good characteristic will be overlooked.
And taking off your clothes is a great tool to get your way.
Just accept life is easier you for, man.
But you misunderstood something.
Girl don’t try to be pretty to have that kind of ‘privilige’ or to get an easier life.
They try to be pretty, because it the only way you survive.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
Instead of a work of fiction
Writing of fantasy or addiction
I chose to write about me instead.
About something I thought was better left unsaid.
They said I was confused, that I misunderstood
Is this what it means to enter adulthood?
It means we’re punished for being open?
Or having to pretend we were just joking?
I wasn’t a child, I was eighteen years old.
Now I carry it, it comes back around, like the flu or a cold
When it’s someone you know
Someone you should be able to trust, where do you even go?
We live in a world where men think being accused
Is the same as being sexually abused.
Where if a woman says something, she’s just lighting a fuse.
But I’m starting a fire because I’m sick of living in hues of gray.
I don’t want to sit back and pretend I didn’t lose something
And then I turn on the tv and feel sick if I watch the news
I see we live in a society where we teach girls to protect themselves
We tell them to make sure he rapes a different girl, not you.
One in three women they say, make sure it’s not you.
And when we speak up, we’re told he won’t be punished.
So why bother saying anything at all?
We’re told we won’t be believed.
Well not today, not for me.
I’m tired of somedays, and maybe they’ll see.
We live in a world where girls clothes are regulated
To make sure it’s the boys who are educated.
We tell our girls their cases won’t be advocated
That boys will be boys, and their comfort is overrated.
You’re homophobic because you don’t want
To be treated the way you treat women
And then you don’t want to be the villain
Catcalling us on the streets
But what if it was your daughter, your mother, your niece?
Defending yourself, saying we can’t take a compliment
And we have no choice but silence when you’re dominant.
You walk down the street without a care
But we worry we’ll be trapped in some nightmare
Make sure it isn’t you.
She’ll always be more drunk, showing more skin, be more alone
And when you say nothing, you don’t even realize you condone it
When you say she was drunk, it was her fault,
You’re blaming a victim, letting him get away,
And you’re saying it wasn’t really an assault
You say if it was your daughter, you’d **** them
Don’t you care what the other daughters will become?
I won’t be silenced,
Not in the face of this violence
Not when a boy can **** a girl and get three months
Where they can sit back and call us ****** and *****
Not when he can ‘grab em by the *****
But if I say something, they’ll just shoot me down or call me pushy.
I’m tired of meaning nothing
I’m tired of them thinking touching
Without permission is their given right
Instead of something that is literally disgusting.
This poem demands to be spoken,
And I refuse to be broken.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
The con men were catcalling from the mountaintops
and dropping serotonin dipped in cheap gold
that they called the color of the sun.
Underneath were we, buried deep in relics and bribes,
sitting eye-level with the sea
where walls of salt hit our eyes.
I saw God on a street corner begging for change
and drawing chalk veins on the concrete,
whispering, “Let them grow.”
There are types of us: lustful, proud--
mankind made of dilated pupils
that shrink for the sun in desks by tall windows.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
din historie rodfæster en sandhed i mig
om cigarrøg og fremmede mennesker
deres magt over kønnet og min krop
i forestillingen;
jeg mister arme
jeg ser mit kød hvordan det forsvinder
(det nemme er at falde fra)
indersiden af låret
mavens rundhed brysternes buen ansigtets rene træk
mine læber; deres måde at skille på
nu vender jeg dem altid på vrangen før jeg går ud
i alle disse berøringer
disse berøringer
i én smeltet masse af hud og hår
*
I just want you to know (jeg ser ikke længere hendes ansigt)
i minderne;
kun krop
kun krop
kun krop
*
der vokser et svigt i mig
i mine øjenvipper
når jeg græder tårer som rammer andres hudlag
diffunderer
fra væske til følelse til en berøring to mennesker imellem
vores relation er ikke andet end tag på hud
og afstumpede nik gennem bevoksede ***
*
I metroen;
altid metroen et ikke *** vi kører imod
et transportmiddel der opsluger. du kan se det i øjnene på disse ”mennesker” i ikke-rummet.
og ud på skinnerne, de drømmer, stigende over kanten. En stemme;
attention à la marche en descendant du train
og jeg retter opmærksomhed, for jeg stoler mere og mere på stemmer uden ansigter
på højtalermagt
end på alle de mennesker, jeg kender.
*
I metroen;
jeg er så træt af at være træt af hans opførsel
catcalling som fænomen, der stammer fra metroens ikke-rum
det må det gøre !
den opslugende kraft, han kan lugte den den hænger i luften,
og alle er usikre
må man gerne efterlade sit liv inden man stiger ind?
attention à ton corps et ta voix
du ved aldrig hvilket ansigt han bærer
*
det er en forventning om at være utilpas, der bor i mig.
en forventning om
at blive catcallet
at mærke fremmede mænds hænder på min krop
at iklæde mig tøj jeg tør gå alene hjem i
at sove på gulvet hos venner for at undgå natbussen
*
jeg ved godt
at ikke alt er mit eget valg
*
og jeg brækker mig i metroen i en uber på gaden i min egen opgang
og jeg skammer mig over skammen
den skam forbundet med fremmedes ord og handlinger
*
du ventede engang på boulevard Saint-Denis
og en mand spurgte dig om hvor meget du kostede for at være hans
én hel nat
og det tog mig én hel dag at forstå din tavshed overfor ham
han kan ikke gå og forvente at alle kvinder på gaden potentielt kan være hans til den rette pris
VI EJER IKKE HINANDEN
OG JEG ER TRÆT AF MIG SELV
NÅR JEG LØBER VEJEN FRA MIN METRO TIL MIN HOVEDDØR
og ånder lettet op
bag en låst dør
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
this **** ain't free
telling me **** is abundant, low quality
dealers catcalling across the streets constantly
contrary I'm a bit of an oddity because
this **** ain't free
telling me **** is low value, high quantity
i may be made in china but I'm not available so commonly.
Don't worry about money,
I'll never be broke, don't need a warranty.
my only struggle is making our ends meet.
this **** ain't free
don't try to explain the inequality of the dichotomy between our biology like it's simple economy of two commodities
I don't want an apology, I'm out, don't talk to me but forget about a return policy
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 12:04 AM UTC
The vintage shops are closing,
The sweepers are cleaning the streets.
Our modern minds are locked in change,
As poetry suffers to defeat.
Oh, the Christmas bells are chiming,
To greet the start of June.
They’re calling, calling, that love’s tokens
Can never be bought too soon.
And, the infant yell of binge drinkers
Sounds over their bosses’ tones.
They’re drink-driving to the liquor store,
And weaving through traffic cones.
Now the engineers are catcalling
In their neon-breasted suits,
Hard hats to hide their flaccid love;
Oh, purple-hearted brutes!
This hometown is full of characters
In the brief demise of day,
And all I can think in this lonesome state is:
Darling, please don’t go away.
This photograph of childhood
Stains my eyes with smiles.
Such a full and healthy appetite,
Now gone over so many miles.
Still, I search on for a reason
To live within this hive.
I’ll give my all to find this sanity;
I’ll give everything just to survive.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
it’s windy I think
at least the windows are rattling
the men in hard hats
yellow motes in the distance
and their jackets the colour
of poison
they scale the façade
of the contralateral building
they’re speaking, yelling,
probably catcalling, singing
their ugly songs on cherry pickers
like some crowned nest
of wagtails
it’s early I think
though the lights are always on
they’re fluorescent, staining
unflattering colouration – rinse
your skin to poverty
to jaundice
I’m here because of pills
I’m here because school is out
I’m here because I’m tired
and I’m tired because of you
flowers sit at the side
already dry upon purchase
gifted awkwardly:
“can we give flowers to a man?”
“a foolish drunk”
“a boy in sheets”
“here’s a helium balloon
to lift your spirits”
“don’t look when it sags to the floor”
“you know that he will”
it’s lonely I think
though it’s filled with people
wristcutter, lupus, chemo,
we’re what’s left post-production
“buy me for half price
or at least half an hour of company”
nurses scan with motherly eyes
radiator warmth - at twelve to three
she washes me, asks me to lift my *****
to get at the two-day grime
of indolence
it’s sad here I think
at least the television is boring
daytime ghosts and broken families
make my bed-sheets gain weight
until nothing is mine
sleep comes in fits
and starts in blindness
it ends with my questioning
of where the dream began
and where reality failed
you haven’t come
I knew that you wouldn’t
it’s hard to blame you
what with my post-use pining
long after you’d given up
the way I act familiar
after treating you like a stranger
I long to leave here
so much that the windows are rattling
I’m here because I am
I’m here because of my job
I’m here because I’m tired
and I’m tired because of you
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
I run my thumb over the stretch marks on the inside of my thighs.
Smooth grooves, not deep, not long,
Reminiscent of the weight gained
That made my *** expand and boys notice me,
Not because they liked me
But because they saw this growth.
These lines tell a short story
About my transition into adulthood.
My transition into catcalling and
Being called bubble **** and
Being told I must be able to dance because of my ***
Small creases, barely noticeable
But significant to my life
My being
Our pain.
I am not proud of these marks
That become visible every time I sit
Criss-crossed and quickly realize they’re there again and move my legs together.
No, I am not proud of these marks.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
The world still doesn't care about girls.
We still tell them to shout fire.
We still tell them that they will be called a liar.
We say your shoulders are distracting
And we tell you that you're overreacting
That your learning is less important than his.
Why don't we tell our boys that girls are not objects to play with
That this isn't something you'll get away with
And have it be true
The world still doesn't care about girls
They said I was confused, that I misunderstood
Is this what it means to enter adulthood?
It means we're punished for being open?
Or having to pretend we were just joking?
I wasn't a child, I was eighteen years old.
Now I carry it, it comes back around, like the flu or a cold
When it's someone you know
Someone you should be able to trust, where do you even go?
We live in a world where men think being accused
Is the same as being sexually abused.
Where if a woman says something, she's just lighting a fuse.
But I'm starting a fire because I'm sick of living in hues of gray.
I don't want to sit back and pretend I didn't lose something
And then I turn on the tv and feel sick if I watch the news
I see we live in a society where we teach girls to protect themselves
We tell them to make sure he rapes a different girl, not you.
One in three women they say, make sure it's not you.
The world still doesn't care about girls
And when we speak up, we're told he won't be punished.
So why bother saying anything at all?
We're told we won't be believed.
Well not today, not for me.
I'm tired of somedays, and maybe they'll see.
We live in a world where girls clothes are regulated
To make sure it's the boys who are educated.
We tell our girls their cases won't be advocated
That boys will be boys, and their comfort is overrated.
You're still to blame because you don't want
To be treated the way you treat women
And then you don't want to be the villain
Catcalling us on the streets
But what if it was your daughter, your mother, your niece?
Defending yourself, saying we can't take a compliment
And we have no choice but silence when you're dominant.
The world still doesn't care about girls
You walk down the street without a care
But we worry we'll be trapped in some nightmare
Make sure it isn't you.
The world still doesnt care about girls
She'll always be more drunk, showing more skin, be more alone
And when you say nothing, you don't even realize you condone it
When you say she was drunk, it was her fault,
And you're saying it wasn't really an assault
I won't be silenced,
Not in the face of this violence
Not when a boy can **** a girl and get three months
Where they can sit back and call us ****** and *****
Not when he can 'grab em by the pussy'
But if I say something, they'll just shoot me down or call me pushy.
I'm tired of meaning nothing
I'm tired of them thinking touching
Without permission is their given right
And how dare we try to fight
The world still doesn't care about girls
My words demands to be spoken,
And I refuse to be broken.
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC