"limo" poems - Hello Poetry

you can tell by the way she swings her hips and pulls your hair and licks her lips and whispers in your ear that she's easy. you'll know her by the short skirt and the tight top and the high heels, by the butterfly tattoo on her lower back and the drink in her hand. if she carries condoms or takes birth control, if she can't say no, if she takes no convincing, you'll know. she's the girl at the party who drinks the most and laughs the loudest. she's the one you discarded the first night you met her, when she gave you the only part of herself that you deemed worthwhile. you'll figure her out from the tar trails of mascara, the untouched meal, the word "worthless" carved into her thigh like a brand, marking her flesh as property to which you are entitled. pay close attention to her need for validation. a **** will have the audacity to seek your approval just because she's been told all her life that she is nothing without your love. she will measure her worth in units of attractiveness and desirability because that is the only system she's ever been taught. you'll know she's a **** when they find the defendant not guilty, and he arrives at the ten-year reunion in a limo. you'll know she's a **** when she doesn't arrive at all. it's easy to spot a **** in a society that teaches her that her lips are for kisses and not battle cries, that her hands are meant to be cradled in yours and not ****** into the sky, that her body is your wonderland and not her home. it's hard to miss a **** in a culture that paints women as ****** objects while condemning any expression of female sexuality, that glorifies the "good girl" who becomes whole when the right man comes along and stakes his claim. the women you ****** in the lifetime before you met your wife weren't marriage material; you need a girl who's saved herself for you because a girl who lets you **** her crosses the threshold from ****** to **** in a bizarre coming of age ritual in which your **** is *so ******* important* that its temporary entrance to her body renders her worthless. you can tell she's a **** because for her, there is no right answer. you can find your **** at rallies and in body-baring photographs, alive in the anxious triumph of finding something in herself that she can love, of digging through a lifetime of rubble and reclaiming small shards of forgiveness from the dirt. her self-identified status rips away your long-established privilege of dictating who she can be and defining her worth; your resent her new autonomy. you can march beside her, or you can step aside. she has stolen back her power. she was made for revolution.

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Jan 3, 2014

Jan 3, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC

maddie-fay

how to spot a ****

you can tell by the way she swings her hips and pulls your hair and licks her lips and whispers in your ear that she's easy. you'll know her by the short skirt and the tight top and the high heels, by the butterfly tattoo on her lower back and the drink in her hand. if she carries condoms or takes birth control, if she can't say no, if she takes no convincing, you'll know. she's the girl at the party who drinks the most and laughs the loudest. she's the one you discarded the first night you met her, when she gave you the only part of herself that you deemed worthwhile. you'll figure her out from the tar trails of mascara, the untouched meal, the word "worthless" carved into her thigh like a brand, marking her flesh as property to which you are entitled. pay close attention to her need for validation. a **** will have the audacity to seek your approval just because she's been told all her life that she is nothing without your love. she will measure her worth in units of attractiveness and desirability because that is the only system she's ever been taught. you'll know she's a **** when they find the defendant not guilty, and he arrives at the ten-year reunion in a limo. you'll know she's a **** when she doesn't arrive at all. it's easy to spot a **** in a society that teaches her that her lips are for kisses and not battle cries, that her hands are meant to be cradled in yours and not ****** into the sky, that her body is your wonderland and not her home. it's hard to miss a **** in a culture that paints women as ****** objects while condemning any expression of female sexuality, that glorifies the "good girl" who becomes whole when the right man comes along and stakes his claim. the women you ****** in the lifetime before you met your wife weren't marriage material; you need a girl who's saved herself for you because a girl who lets you **** her crosses the threshold from ****** to **** in a bizarre coming of age ritual in which your **** is *so ******* important* that its temporary entrance to her body renders her worthless. you can tell she's a **** because for her, there is no right answer. you can find your **** at rallies and in body-baring photographs, alive in the anxious triumph of finding something in herself that she can love, of digging through a lifetime of rubble and reclaiming small shards of forgiveness from the dirt. her self-identified status rips away your long-established privilege of dictating who she can be and defining her worth; your resent her new autonomy. you can march beside her, or you can step aside. she has stolen back her power. she was made for revolution.