"fuckable" poems
Being a girl in my day and age,
you get used to all the horn honks,
the wolf whistles,
and the "hey baby's",
and the guys saying "you're too pretty not to smile",
as though not having a smile on my face at all times is a sin.
But why should I smile when harassment becomes normal,
when a girl can't report it because even the police thinks she should be flattered,
but why should I be flattered that a guy wants to see up my dress so much that he 'accidentally' pushes it up,
why should I be flattered when a guy can't even use words so he whistles at me like I'm a dog.
But I am not a *****
I cannot be won over by a whistle and sweet words,
no scratch behind my ears in the form of some misogynistic pick up line,
will give you a chance.
And if I laugh at your poor attempt,
it is not consent,
just because my lips curl into a smile,
does not mean you can come curl up with me.
My self worth does not exist on how fuckable I am in your perverted eyes,
it is not existent on if you want to 'hit that',
if you were to hit anything it should be your mindset that that is okay,
right out of your head.
Because I am not an object for your pleasure,
and I object to you treating me like I am.
I AM!
I AM!
I AM!
A WOMAN!
Built from all the things a man could never be.
And don't you ever ******* forget it.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
What do you want from me?
I ask my memories,
Wondering why they’ve come out to play,
Tap dancing across the wood floors of me mind,
Creating a cacophony that echoes off my skull.
What do you want from me?
I hear them when they respond, “We’re trying to make you safe.”
I know they’re attempting to prevent tumbling off the same rocks,
Trying to ensure I don’t crack bones on the same hard places.
They are telling me to avoid having pieces of me stolen again.
I couldn’t protect myself at thirteen or sixteen,
So I stumbled down the same dark alleys until I was 18
And paid a grander price in an even darker cave at 19.
I’m 22 now, and I’m still picking up the pieces out of the mouths of men,
Men who cut me down until I was a conglomerate of bite size, fuckable pieces.
I was taught not to scream when my pieces were being consumed.
Who needs to be a whole human anyway?
If tip money went into my pocket,
If he told me he loved me afterwards,
If I was alive to see the morning light,
Who was I to complain?
And when I stopped wanting to see the sun rise,
They gazed upon my pieces
And berated me for the wreckage.
What do you want from me?
Is a question I only know how to ask myself.
I have never dared ask those who stole from me
Whether they came to me in good faith,
Never had the wisdom to lock up what was valuable.
I have never demanded of anyone what their intentions were,
So I ask again: What do you want from me?
What am I expected to provide?
Am I allowed to be a whole human here?
Or will you require I be bite size again?
I am desperate to be safe in the same flesh that once enticed those who hunted me.
What do you want from me?
I’ll tell you what I want.
I want to go home whole,
Knowing my skin is all mine.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 12:50 PM UTC
one time mary lambert told me that i am a ******* tree stump so i went outside to absorb the earth
always take time out of every day to go out without shoes on
feel the grass beneath your feet and between your toes
go out in public without shoes as well
do not be self-conscious
do not blush and curl in your toes when people stare
always remember that feet are weird anyway
always be proud of your weird parts
one time i did dxm and almost puked
laying in the cool dewy grass made me feel better though
i couldn't fathom how beautiful everything was in that moment
(i do not condone the use of drugs)
one time there was a time when i didn't need nicotine or drugs to feel better about myself
i miss that, that time in my life
i'm getting better though
i hope you are too
i hope you get completely naked before a shower and while the water's heating up i hope you look at yourself and touch all of you and i hope you slide your hands down your ribs and hips and think ******* i am one **** fuckable ************
because that's exactly what you are
i don't want this to be a cliche "u r beautiful" thing but i think that's what it's turning into
a cool thing about life is that when you cry your cheeks get stained with black but it always goes back to normal
your skin, that is
a cool thing about you is that you are like your skin
a cool thing about your skin is that it's always changing, always shedding, always growing
what i'm trying to say is that nothing is permanent
that you aren't always gonna be stuck in this **** hole
that you'll always find a way to resurface
that you aren't just a crack in the cement, you're the whole ******* city
haha, i love you you stupid head
a lot of people do
be kind to others because we're all just dumb beautiful walking flesh things
smile at every stranger and love like plants do
i don't care what you say, you are someone's sun
so shut up with all that "i'm worthless no one will ever love me" crap
be a conceded ********
love yourself
disregard rude remarks
basically be like kanye
u do u booboo
keep all of this in mind the next time you're afraid to go out in a certain outfit or to change your hair or to wear lots of makeup or no makeup or eat or any ******** nonsense you wanna do. please just do it. dont be a *****
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
Mamie leaned
against a sitting camel
on the beach
at base camp
outside Tangiers
fiddling with her camera
clothed
in her red two piece
bathing kit
and pink framed
sunglasses
her reddish hair
a mass of curls
looking quite fuckable
as you snapped her picture
with your camera
with the Moroccan guy
looking towards you
thinking maybe the same
holding the rope
leading to the camel
and she said
I wasn’t ready
I was trying to get
my camera set
looking at you
through her darkened lens
holding her camera
in her hands
the Moroccan guy
looking bored
wanting his pay
and to move on
well I’ve got you now
you said
something to gawk at
in my lonely hours
you could have waited
she said
the sun’ll go in a few hours
you joked
ha-ha
she replied
she paid the guy
and left him
and the camel
and walked towards you
her bare feet
left footprints
in the damp yellow sands
the camel stinks
she said
and so does he
she steadied her camera
and walked back a few paces
and said
pose yourself
and so you posed yourself
standing there
in your white tee shirt
and blue jeans
your hair windswept
your features set
in a sun blinded smile
hold it
she said
hold what?
you asked
the pose
she said crossly
just like that
and she snapped the shot
and gazed at you
through the dark lens
of her sunglasses
her small plump ****
wanting to escape
her red bathing top
and the sun still there
in the blue sky
the Moroccan guy gone off
down the beach
the camel following him behind
and you studied Mamie
as she walked back
towards base camp
with love making thoughts
in your sun baked mind.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
everyone is posting videos
forgetting science
and trying to burn snow
well *** holes it’s called sublimation and
**** you for not liking my picture I posted 26 minutes ago
where else is my poor narcissistic soul going to get my ego boost from
I have 34 likes and I need at least 50 to feel like I can be deemed fuckable by the general public
please help me
and you posted a picture
and I liked it and so did your ex-girlfriend
and I ******* hate her and how she can relate to you
and she knows what an IV to the heart feels like and I don’t
but you make me wish I was ill or near death just so I can feel like maybe just maybe we can lay in opposite hospital beds
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
i was looking for you
but found a girl named Cacy instead
except im not entirely sure how she spelt it
maybe Kasey? Casey? Kacie?
She told me she wanted to start going by Cass (Kass?)
though
i told her that i knew a girl named Cass
and even though it was a lie
she couldnt tell
or maybe she could
but either way she said that the name
"Cass"
was a "fuckable" name,
a name that was bound to
"get some"
and i had nodded with that sheepish grin
you hate
and started to shake
with that embarassing nervousness
that annoys you
and she held my hand and lit a cigarette
she told me that she hated smokers
but that it "blurs the edges"
i told her that i was all edges
she asked why
and so i told her about you
and how i was looking
but how i had found her
and how i very much preferred to have found her instead
she gave me a cigarette
and i coughed because you know i have asthma
i said thanks and called her Cass
and she had smiled because i think she was starting to grow
quite fond of the sound of the name
i coughed out my name
and she told me about how Peter Pan was "hot" and how wendy was the
biggest **** ever
we laughed
and we smoked
we talked
and we shivered
we went inside
and we slept
and i didnt cheat
even though Cass was quite fuckable
i slept
and dreamt of her rather than you
and woke up much happier than i have ever been.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
i like the communism acknowledged by ants
and terminites,
but that brothel bit where
we plagiarise lions
just to get islam?
**** that, let’s try again,
and again,
and again... until
the rhytms of the labrador and
the tricep conincide with a society
worth living in,
the utopia of my grandfather
i wished i lived in only compensated
by achilles and hercules...
imagine! only by achilles and hercules!
only by achilles and hercules!
hell with you!
hell with you for stealing that from me
and giving me the antionette john paul ii...
that gave me a statue and not a job -
endearing as the entering applause,
hell with you, discarded western of the jeans...
i'd go back to ukraine had
i claimed justice in a society that divided me
to make justice unclaimed and literature
for worth of being unclaimed...
had such society existed... the mongols
would have conquered it by simply yawning /
as opposed to mustard stink /
what? west's the best daddy's girl hello
boy dylan **** jim morrison?
you're ahead of yourself in the electra complication
with the decided cold war no.2 originating with the
kalashnikov & katyusha in pseudo-ottoman hands;
hell with you! stay middle class and un-fuckable!
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Fickle, fuckable
All sex-hair and come to bed eyes
She stole away for solitary moments
Just to watch cigarette smoke rise
Feel the cold breeze bite
Unsatisfied
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
And we make grand gestures like it matters,
Like we are more than matter and if I tell you the same
Cockneyed stories over and over this time in the morning you will
Stay. Or the distance will become a nonexistent blimp on the surface of our
Own existence, I will exist within you, if I make grand gestures:
This will matter.
The overbearing distance between our physical bodies but our celestial minds.
I want to be real. I want to be real with you, be real with me,
Tell me the truth but tell me lies too,
Make me regret telling everyone who asks that the key is communication.
Is it communication or looking at someone
Someone bleeding on the ground, and still finding them fuckable,
As if Fuckability matters, as if Fuckability for fools is more than a need to
Touch base and touch **** like the world depends on it,
Like it is December Twenty First and the world is ending,
And we are millions of miles apart, and millions of words apart,
And nothing I have said yet can convince you or me that we are people who matter.
We matter to each other and it is scary to not know the confines of someone’s mind, wherein I float, wherein I remain stagnant as an F word,
Wherein I play charades to convince myself I am more than the men in my life.
I am Goodnight and Good Morning and please send me one more shred of light to hang on to, please give me the time of day, please let our states become one mass of existence, please make me Matter.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
Sit up straight
And listen up,
Because this is not a drill and
I am only going to say this once:
I am not ebony -
A piece of decorative wood.
Nor am I chocolate-
Ready to melt into myself with the heat of your touch.
I’m not you’re “sista” –
We are not related.
And I’m definitely not your “gurrrrl”.
We never dated.
I will tell you what I am:
You may want to take a deep breath now…
I am a Black woman.
Yes, with a capital ‘B’.
I am a Black woman.
Who is exhausted because
everything I do is silently political.
Whom I choose to dance with in the club
Is political – “is she into white guys, or black?”
The way I answer the question:
“Where are you from…?”
“No, where are you really from?”
Is political – “You look different from me, so I need to put you in a labelled box and **** at you with my mind.”
Like saying I’m from near your ends isn’t a good enough answer.
My accent?
Political – “Why is she so well-spoken? Who adopted you?”
It confuses you, because it doesn’t match my South London skin tone.
The way I choose to style my hair
Is political – I wear weaves because I want to be European and hate myself. I wear afros because I hate Europeans and love myself.
How I pronounce my own surname
Is political – Do I simplify it to spare your blushes when you mispronounce it?
The music I proudly declare to enjoy –
Political.
I must be a secret bloke – like that Serena fella of the telly.
‘Cause no fuckable girl has looks like that.
And my skinny arms?
Well, they never fed me in the orphanage, remember?. I’m obviously malnourished like my family back in the Motherland.
You say: “I don’t see race – we are all one.”
Good for you.
but, I cannot afford to pretend to be colour-blind because
I am a Black woman-
Bottom of the rung.
I am affected and I am exhausted.
I am a Black woman-
But that is not all that I am.
Are you still sitting straight?
Can you hear me in the back?
Because this is not a drill
And this woman is Black.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
I want to get a little drunk,
sit on a couch and **** on lollipops
I want to look thin and fuckable, unstable,
I want to make eye contact while my hands are spread on card tables-
you pick up the jack, I swallow the ace
my mind is stuck in quite the mixed up place
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
I am the burner of bridges,
Said Bridget, the smoker of
Cigarettes who lies and stares
At the passing day. My childhood
Follows me like a shadow’s dark;
Its ghostly presence is always there,
Its non wise words echoing in my
Ear. I sleep with men for the lost
love, kiss them in the search for
my lost mother’s warmth, hug them
In the lonely hours. My dead babies
Cling to my legs, their tiny fingers
Clutch at my dress as I walk along;
Their eyes look up like lamps in the
Still night. I am the aborter of babes,
The owner of a useless womb; I push
Out stillborns like a factory, give birth
To a form but not to life; I am anyone’s
Woman, any man’s wife, I lay and gaze
At the moon, I watch smoke rise from
My cigarette, it forms rings as father did,
The smoke curling and rising with his
Phantom presence there in room, the
Ghostly cigarette hanging from his lips.
I have searched for God in the blackness
Of night, sought His love in the arms of men,
Awaited His coming in the winter’s wind;
His love is there, but I do not see, His arms
Caress, but I do not feel; I am alone still.
I am the walker of cities, the sitter in lone
Cafes, the easy ride, the fuckable dame;
I wear the badge of kiss me quick or leave
Me never. I am the sleeper of nights in a
Musty bed; see dead babies in heart and head.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
You are...
Stunning
Sweet
Fun
Beautiful
Adorable
Wicked
Insatiable
Skilled
Kind
Intoxicating
Trouble
Wild
Easy to be around
Desirable
Genuine
****
Amazing
****** hysterical
Crazy
Addicting
Lovable
Cute
Incredible
Ravishing
Smoking hot
Dazxzling
Exquisite
Fuckable
Positive
Energetic
Perfect
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
.
fuckable
the
haireyes
morning roll
her pinched
cleft
wafts hard
smelling of seagirls; i splitting
wet
crack
stiffly her the
fingers
ENTeringleAVE
dewed
in
A
Shout "yes"
(ok again
i will)
push her up
me to
sighing wider
apart
yawing
thighs
extremely
taste
li(ke
brine tastes sweetly sour
)marching through
mouth across
tongue
throat and hand
"please"
tightly
"hert me"
and
"ok" i'll
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
it would probably never work because I've been through so many F words
and the only one that's stuck was fuckable and not the one that best described myself and life as a whole which I believe is fragile
you can't walk a day without bumping into an f word that f worded me and it's f word that it's common knowledge that I've been through so many f words but apparently not shared that I've spilled myself into coffee mugs and paint jars tryin to turn f words into futures and I've all ever been through so many cause I just want to be loved and **** it Freddy Kruger I just want someone to love
but F words will be ******** and and I'll move on to the next word trying to find a new sword to bleed myself out of being
cause he lied and he lied
and all I did was bend in angles set squares couldn't even triangle but in the end there's more then 2billion 6hundred and forty2 F words in language and I'll just always be the girl with too many f words and it's no shocker why I'm suffering from heart failure
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Carve the imperfections from my skin.
"Is that a birth mark or a bruise?"
Light myself on fire, and let the fat sizzle from my flesh.
"You're fuckable, for a big girl."
Slice open my veins and purge them of every unwelcome memory.
"You are not capable."
Wrap razor wire around my heart so no one may reach it;
"I could never love you."
So should my heart ever swell again,
I will die.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
My mother thinks I'm not myself with her anymore (because I'm not, and how could I be?). I don't miss the child who danced in department stores, caught caramels from July 4th floats. I am not her, and she is not me. Her sparkling smile has lapsed away, eroded into the sexiness I attempt to allude now. As if being fuckable was something more enriching. At twenty, I'm smaller than I ever was before. Weaker, even, because of my smallness. I've been gripping onto the edge of the daily routine, and felt my palms ache at the attempt. My hands burn, rope cuts skin. I'm forgetting what's within now. A certain strength I could muster at one time has all but left me with a wet kiss on the cheek. Life sneers Try again later, sweet heart. Test your luck one more time...
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
it’s so sad that your beauty will simply demask you as fuckable rather than cindarella; oddly we allow adults to believe in santa clause but forget obstructing children from believing the brothers grimm, just so we can shop; let paradise burn, i’ll cool off without you drinking a bottle of beer, and that’s an honest counter worthy of being said; bye.
the women always care for your
drinking, even though you don't,
and never will, and always wonder:
why do they care and you're content
with it? i guess that's an omelette
with ~dozen about to be fried.
i always loved drink more than
women, because i never had any
women in my adolescene to care for...
always the bottle prior to the ****
oh well: chinese take-out ning hoo...
comes joseph stalin stealing my vocabulary
calling it racism in his post-colonialism:
mongolian harmonica playing broken
the coarse violin (of motor boat lips blur burp brrp
and the index finger doing the winking motion).
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
When did everything change?
When did I become fuckable,
Not dateable?
When did I become a late nite visit,
But not a dinner date?
When did I become a "need company?" text,
But not the "let's go out" call?
When did I become a 2am text
And not a 2pm "how's your day" call?
When did I become that girl?
Not dateable
Not human
Not a person
Not a soul
But just a good time.
When?
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
you are ****
you are beautiful
you are strong
you are woman
you are heavenly
you make me weak in the knees
you are loveable
you are fuckable
i want you
i need you
you make me crazy
you are exactly as you should be
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
his opinion does not define you
your worth is not measured by the number of kisses he’s left on your neck or
the number of times he’s asked to see you naked
your worth is not measured by the number of boys whose lips you have tasted
your worth is not measured by the number of times you have been called beautiful or hot
your worth is not measured by the number of relationships you’ve been in
whether these numbers are deemed too high or too low
your worth is measured by you and you alone
you are more than just a person, you are an entire world within human skin and
there is so much out there for you to experience and
you should not
you cannot
let yourself be defined by what a boy thinks of you
you are so much more than what he can fit into the palm of his hand
your purpose is not to please him or entertain him
your purpose is not to satisfy his cravings
your worth is not defined by how well you satiate his hunger
your worth is yours to define
your purpose is yours to find
you are an entire world within human skin
you have the ability to create life,
you have the ability to change the world
you have the ability to be the most successful person on earth
you have the ability to be anything
to do anything
that you set your mind to
his opinion does not define you
your worth is not measured by how fuckable he finds you
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
forcing your invitation
beyond my lap
are we too fuckable?
stuffed and posed, i’m pretty now
permission to stare at my weak mouth
worthless, worthless
internal assurance,
only proven with sad pap-smears
so the sound track is a belt unbuckling
dragging it ****** across my face
dripping *****
rot covers the bridge of my nose
smiling, pleased at your product
and Satan grabbing at my cage
supporting my head,
scratching at the pretty ankles
searching beneath this gushing blood
getting off from the sound of it
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
what words do i need to put here next?
o yeah right, i just lost an argument today
and i didn't bother speaking out my stand.
speak out what?
speak about how ****** my life
is turning out to be?
i was late at work today
because of the ****** traffic enforcers who
delayed my travel because of their
incompetency on handling the ****** up
traffic
and funny; they make a living out of my taxes.
my fingers wants to explode,
my fists wants to punch a hole out of thin air.
this frustration can't even take a shape of a ball
and so it goes ******** my head all day
is it fair to say i'm doing my best every
single ******* day just to make it through the fire?
bukowski, i imagine your ghost
but i can't tell what would be your reaction.
maybe you'll ignore me like those desperate
writers from the past who sent you their poems
you ignored unless it was a fuckable *****
you don't give a **** for what matters most to you is
how well you walk through the fire.
i am walking through the fire.
every day.
every cigarette.
every breath.
every dump.
every ****
frustration at its finest
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC