Renee 'Wisera' Aug 2015
There once was a girl on the news
They say she liked to eat shoes
Keep on your feet
When it's time to eat
Or you may be the next victim to lose
LeV3e Jul 2016
Here we go again,
Another day, another dollar bill to spend,
Still dividing my time, by seven twenty five
Plus tips up the bid,
School will "take care" of your kids,
Don't think about missing out on them,
Cause in the end we all gotta eat...

It's not as easy as it's made out to be,
This, so called "American dream".
It's been a scheme since the banks became a thing,
And it seems to me that,
Winning isn't really even an option....

Cops shootin' down innocents,
Ignorant people blaming the immigrants, Violence is imminent in the face of division.
And we are all victims.
Annabella Vye Mar 2014
The innocence of someone who
still hasn't touched a drop.
Of someone who won't take a drag
or blow out clouds of useless crops.

They all start out the very same,
Say they won't touch a single thing
but they all end up the same as well,
all merely desensitizing.

Goodbye, goodbye my view of you.
Au revoir my idea of
My perception of that soul of yours.

Oh victim, victim
who are you?
alice Jun 2014
2 men,
that's it.
2 men
have known me,
inside, they fit.

Doped out
of my mind;
it's hard to recall.
Bits and pieces,
flashes of memory.
I was a living rag doll.

Barely breathing,
he takes me from behind.
Pulls my hair,
and says,
"I'm gonna make you mine!"

I think it happened
three times,
but who really knows?
When your brain's
as high as mine goes.

I can't call it RAPE,
I was a willing participant.
Numb to the bones,
so with it I went.

When it all fell apart;
my secrets exposed,
he wrote me something
that was no longer prose.

His words were razor blades,
slicing the skin with ease.
I kept myself in my own prison;
over, my heart began to freeze.

"A willing rape victim",
is what he called me.
Sick to my stomach
for allowing him in,
I lay my head on the pillow
to cry for a 5 year old sin.
Inspired by the most hurtful words ever uttered to me. Written before I could accept that this man had indeed raped me.
Aesthete Flower Dec 2014
Rape culture is when I was six, and
my brother punched my two front teeth out.
Instead of reprimanding him, my mother
said “What did you do to provoke him?”
When my only defense was my
mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him.
Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”

As if it was my sole purpose, the reason
six-year-old me existed,
was to not rile up my brother.
It’s starts when we’re six, and ends
when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man
is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to
not “rile him up.” Right, mom?
Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation,
my father says that women who get raped are asking for it.
He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City,
with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”

When I used to be my father’s hero but
will he think I was asking for it?
Will he think I deserved it?
Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me,
even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s -
burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand.
Rape culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would
be easier for your parents to find you dead,
than to say, “Hey mom and dad,”
It was not my fault. I did not ask for it.
I never asked for this attention, I never asked
to be a target, to be weak because I was born with
two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me,
in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey.
I never wanted to spend my life being something
someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved.
I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore.
I will not let you eat me alive.
Rape culture is I should not defend my friend when
an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her ass,
because standing up for her body “makes me a target.”
Women are afraid to speak up, because
they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit
than live in a culture of silence.
I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined
by the DNA in my weaker, softer body.
I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance.
I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time.
Rape culture is he was probably abused as a child.
When he even has some form of a justification
and all I have are the things that provoked him,
and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest
and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin.
Rape culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me.
A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee.
There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take
me years to methodically extract him from my body.
And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm years later?
Proof of the past.
Like a tattoo I did not ask for.
Somehow I am permanently inked.
Rape culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore
without feeling dirty, without feeling like
you somehow earned it.
You will feel like you are walking on knives,
every time you wear the shoes
you smashed his nose in with.
Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels,
thinking, maybe this will heal me.
Those shoes are your freedom,
But the remains of a life long fight.
You will always carry your heart,
your passion, your absolute will to live,
but also the shame and the guilt and the pain.
I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives.
Rape culture is “You were not really raped, you were
one of the lucky ones.”

Because my body was not penetrated by a penis,
but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky.
I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you.
Thank you for being so kind.
Rape culture is “things could have been worse.”
“It’s been a month. Get out of bed.”
“You’ll have to get over this eventually.”
“Don’t let it ruin your life.”
Rape culture is he told you that after he touched you,
no one would ever want you again.
And you believed him.
Rape culture is telling your daughters not to get raped,
instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women.
That sex is not a right. You are not entitled to this.
The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a
slut, a whore, a bitch.
The worst possible thing you can call a man is a
bitch, a pussy, a girl.
The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl.
The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl.
Being a woman is the ultimate rejection,
the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the
absolute insult.

When I have a daughter,
I will tell her that she is not
an insult.
When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight.
I will look at her like the sun when she comes home
with anger in her fists.
Because we are human beings and we do not
always have to take what we are given.
They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,
but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.
I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that
when she hears it, she will not question it.
Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.
I am alive because of the fierce love I have
for myself, and because my father taught me
to protect that.
He taught me that sometimes, I have to do
my own bit of saving, pick myself off the
ground and wipe the dirt off my face,
because at the end of the day,
there is only me.
I am alive because my mother taught me
to love myself.
She taught me that I am an enigma - a
mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and
I must love myself enough to see how I turn out.
I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back
against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me
worth fighting for.
And for that, I thank my parents.
Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up,
I will show her how to be exposed.
Because no is not “convince me”.
No is not “I want it”.
You call me,
“Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.”
But I am not any of these things for you.
**I am exploding light,
my daughter will be exploding light,
and you,
better cover your eyes.
Aubrey Aug 2014
I am not this person...
I was not that person.
Every pacifying sentence,
every empty promise,
every apology,
every manipulation,
they made me her.
And I don't blame you
as much as I
blame your words.
I admit
I play the martyr
and we all know
you play the victim.
We deserve Oscars.
We play them so well.
You have to admit
you want no part of this.
It has been obvious
for more than five years.
Now I have to listen
as your daughter cries for you...
saying you are gone...
saying she needs you...
saying I broke your heart...
and I must comfort her...
saying you love her.
Tell me why
that feels like a lie?
Lambert Mark Mj Sep 2014
A decade of silent and grieving pours
Sadly no mountains to explore
Only islands in our dreams
That are vastly full of dreary streams,

Wailing rains have stopped,
But only can I hear the sound of my clap,
This one pour of flood,
has caused many terrors and blood

            *- Learn your mistakes before it may cause a storm-
always Jan 2015
It doesn't matter
If I have
A father
A brother or A husband
to protect me.

I feel Like a victim
They stare at me
I have to hide my physique
Not because of cold
To protect myself
From their lust.

I afraid, What If
I failed
To protect myself
That horrible Dreams
Cruel reality
I feel helpless.

Each Second
Can't stop thinking
About a dream
They taking off my cloth
Treating me like
A whore.
I hate when a men treat a women like this,
Write-or-die Feb 2014
coolness of august
spring fever never came
warm bodies turn to cold
as winter hits our skin

coldness of him
you make me sick just like a fever that cant be cured
warm bodies, rush in
you come to take my innocence
as you hit me
I become a victim
who is now trapped

A bird with clipped wings
You take everything I love
leave me with nothing

My family blames me
when it was your fault

I am the bad guy
Im the monster no one likes
Truth is Im the victim
to a horrible scene
that no cop seen
I scream inside
hide outside
I need help
but you silence me
I am broken

it never happened
this is something im going through (*please comment*) if you had the same thing happen to you or like it -thank you :)
Caleb Reeves Mar 2015
While I'm so worried about who is being cruel to me and why,
I forget to look in the faces of those I've wronged.
ringnir Jul 2015
The one who loves the depressive mind
Commits to smites; the wary waltz he gaits
Arresting all pride he denies he's blind
Yet the poison nectar; cures and claims his fate

A fate that by his hands has hewed
A fate where he is the *exclude
Dhaye Margaux Feb 2015
She was raped and abused
Told her story to her lawyer
But recalling the scene in her mind
Couldn't make her feel better

She had a depression after
Feeling that she's dirty
Afraid that when everyone knows it
She will be called bad and ugly

Who will listen or believe me?
They will think the fault was mine
If I did not show myself to him
Perhaps he won't be tempted to cross the line

Her lawyer really wants to fight
But she started keeping quiet
Why not?  The man who raped her
Has now the stage finally set

Many victims like her in this world
End with a hopeless decision
Fearing life would be different
Just a pessimist's intuition
Based on the movie "Biktima" (Victim).
C E Harrington May 2015
I’m not trying to play the victim.
I’m trying to help my situation.
I’m trying to help myself.
I’m trying to be the best I can.
I’m not trying to play the victim.
I’m trying to find solace in silence.
I’m trying to find a place where it’s ok.
I’m trying to find a place where I’m ok.
I’m not trying to be the victim.
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