He called her his whore,
his own bitch to ride on,
like dogs.Prized only darkness,
Abandoned in public,
She wasn’t free,
she wasn’t light,
she wasn’t even a dog.
At least dogs could be seen as companions and trophies.
She was no trophy,
she wasn’t even seen.
Facebook and Twitter serves as auctions,
bid on the item before you fuck
I mean touch.
You bid before you touch her.
He used to bid before he touched her
Check out her jeans and skirts
and all that may contain them,
set a price on her like tags
and keep a tab on her.
He used to keep tabs on her
as if she was his to give,
This is too common of a story,
like children not raised,
words not said,
We shouldn’t have to be writing about this,
like how my school is filled with more heart broken girls than virgins,
how I’m seen as property before as human,
and how women could only be sluts or prudes.
So I have a few questions:
How are women 51.3% of this world’s population,
and are still the minority?
Why are bedroom scenes viewed as ‘just business’?
Why is Victoria the one keeping all the secrets?
When do I have the right to call myself a woman?
Is it when I hand over my crown and like it,
or does that just make me his property (bitch)?
How do I be a girl in 2012?
Rape is forever a bad word even though it happens to a 3rd of us,
women, girls, females, chicks, broads, hoes
sluts that had it coming to them
like he did.
If she can’t stop him
then she deserves it,
like one 3rd of girls under 12.
Laugh it off, I dare you.
There are enough jokes made about this occurrence.
I’m tired of hearing the words YOLO and swag
next to rape and domestic violence jokes.
This is too common of a story.
Please tell me how to be a girl in 2012.
We have to learn to be strong enough to carry the world
and to have it knocked down in one gust
from men that dare to call themselves God.
We’re prizes, but never blessings.
We made this world, and are being called burdens.
Our health is put at the hands of men
who thinks the female body could just shut down.
You can’t shut me down,
don’t act like you built me up to begin with.
How do you tell clouds to stop crying?
How could you tell oceans to stop moving?
How can you tell fire to stop burning?
How could you tell me I’m voiceless?
How do you not hear me screaming?
How do I be a girl,
in a world that’s obsessed with my body and oppression?
Why is the sound of no wind that makes me the saddest?
The sound of no movement,
just the feeling of time passing
and you can feel age grow more on you
like how hair turns grey
and skin becomes fragile,
and nothing is being done.