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I am not your baby You did not give me life I was never your joy I was never your pride I am not a dog I don’t respond to whistles And shouting, “Aye Shawty” Will only result in dismissal
The Irony in Having the Name “Hope” H.C. My name is Hope and I may be white But that does not mean that I am blind To the violence To the discrimination
As I walk by, I feel as I want to squeal Their harsh starting, harsh words, harsh motions towards me "Hey baby", whistling, their disgusting ways Always I want to ignore them Always I walk faster, to try and escape
"You see I'm different," She said, "because I'm just like the rest As I walked down the street They yell and they holler Even as I turn and hide my breasts At the bank she said
I want to say every word Ive ever seen sprawled on a locker. I want to punch a hole in your face with the butt of my sword but It's only a pen and we both know it.
I begin with a universal statement: Growing up sucks. being caught in the in between sucks in a lot of ways, and everyone has dipped their toe in the primordial pool of puberty
Have you ever heard a train whistle?
A girl on the cusp of womanhood With feminine features and curves Begins to despise what she's praised for
Listen, I tell the tale Of my pain Of their pain Do you hear them? The collective despair Shared by every woman who is forced To witness their culture stripped Only to be sold
You. In the car. Tinted windows, protected, and left with. You can where you go.