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Showing most liked content on 08/04/18 in all areas

  1. 1 point
    i can’t breathe i can’t breathe i can’t breathe i can’t....breathe oxygen stale in caved-in lungs breath beating wings, frantic inside birdcage set my canary free let me breathe give me oxygen i can’t breathe i can’t breathe i can’t breathe i can’t breathe i can’t.... the funny thing, says the narrator with wise, weary knowing, is that she actually can breathe just fine. there’s no cage—only the monsters snarling in her paranoid, runaway thoughts in the corners of her warped and worried mind (you’ve always been a worrier) let my canary free of the darkness and the fear (i can’t breathe—you can. i can’t—you’re fine. are you sure? how can you ever be sure?)
  2. 1 point
    dear men: why? i try to assume the best of people but god, you sure make it hard listen i'm sure you meant the best when you asked about my cosplay, but then i told you and you didn't leave you didn't leave you didn't leave maybe you thought that was fine but you're over a foot taller than me and please, i just want to get up that escalator look. imagine me, sitting there, waiting for my friend (we were walking together but i got tired of waiting; here's why) you call me 'pretty sexy', sitting there in full cosplay. are you from lord of the rings? did you see my hands tighten around the umbrella? could you hear my heart stutter? 'sorry, pretty,' you say, like that makes it better (spoiler: it doesn't. i know it's in your head.) i smile because i don't know what else to do. please leave. 'meet us at the restaurant,' says my mother, 'we thought the meet up would take longer' i knew it wouldn't. i tell her that. i walk four blocks and i'm nervous as hell little me in the city, dressed in a goddamn blonde wig and short shorts and crop top 'hey, baby,' says the man on the bench. i will beat you with this umbrella dear men: i am not your piece of meat. let's go back a few weeks. picture me, laughing, full-face of makeup: 'oh, do me next,' i laugh. 'how old do you think i am?' '24.' '17.' he holds his hands out for handcuffs. my laughter turns false. i don't want your wink and smile over the glass countertop. i just want my sandwich. dear men: i am not a slice of ham at the deli. i am not a cold drink for you to sip. i am not a statue or a piece of art. i am five feet tall with zero muscle and i will lay you flat with this umbrella. i'm seventeen years old. don't make me. technically i'm bisexual. there's a reason i focus mostly on girls. want to guess the reason? in summary: men. why? AN: why are men like this why why why this poem sucks but i don't even care i just want to get it out there that i am pissed off and done