The problem is
that my sister should not be
afraid to walk from a restaurant
to her car without being on
the phone with somebody.

The problem is
that I should not have to run
faster when men approach me
with their windows rolled down
when I am on my morning jog.

The problem is
that there were five sexual
assaults on my college campus
in one semester committed by
people the victims knew.

The problem is
that every man I have met
has tried harder to get
into my jeans than
into my heart.

The problem is
that women are killed for
denying a man the right to
touch them.

The problem is
that no one is working
to solve the problem.

the problem is bigger than we can imagine | S.B. (via fallinlovewithapoet)

I wake up,
kiss the sun
smile at flowers
hug my enemies
listen to criticism,
I doubt myself
make a quick prayer
smile a little more
bite my tongue
and I lie about

But late at night,
when I hear
nothing but sleep
emerging from
every soul
near by,
I rip my skin open
and bleed
on white pages
to seek
the approval
and love
I’ve been dying
to receive —
like a bouquet of flowers —
for my entire life.

What do you spill on a white page? - j.b. (via youshouldacceptchaos)
It is so fucking funny
how you are saying that
it is unfair that I am stitching
up my own wounds as if
you are the one that deserves
an apology and a hug as
if you are the damn victim.
It is so fucking funny
how you suddenly
decided that I was
worth it to you only
once I found out that
you had fallen for someone
else and I really think you
only want me back because
she declined you.
It is so fucking funny
how you are acting like
you are heartbroken when
just a week ago you were
going to leave me and asking
how you can get this other
person to like you back.
It is so fucking funny
how you lied to me about
so many goddamn things
and you were asking me
questions that would cause
someone to cringe and wonder
how safe I ever was with you.
It is so fucking funny
that only now you say
you loved me and cared
about me when you were
just about to drop me and run
away from me as if I were
a damn leaf of poison ivy.
It is so fucking funny
how you want me to
speak to you again
when you had cut me out of
your life for weeks and pretended
that I did not even exist.
It is so fucking funny, isn’t it?
It is so funny. (via dollpoetry)
I found you alone, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. I felt obligated to lift a bit of the weight for you, only because you are so beautiful because I help too many and care not about myself because a fragile creature like you deserves to be free
I overestimated my abilities and though I love you so, I’m collapsing under the weight of my world and yours.
There’s such thing as being too selfless. (via luhvelythoughts)

The first time a man slapped me on the ass, I was fourteen years old, bussing tables at a family restaurant.

Catcalls make me jump out of my skin. I have never figured out how to take them as a compliment.

When I learned that “no” did not always stop slipping lips and wandering hands, I was sixteen. I was told that it was my fault for being tempting. I haven’t left the house with shorts on for years. It makes me nervous to be alone somewhere with another person when I have a dress on.

I always get uncomfortable when men make jokes about why women go to the bathroom in groups. Nobody likes to hear that we are taught from the youngest age that we should never go anywhere alone.

The second time that “no” did not stop someone, my date pulled up in front of my house and hit the door lock, wrapped his hand around my throat because I told him I just thought we should be friends.

The third time, I was sprawled out on a hammock in the front lawn with a man I’d been out with a handful of times. When I first said “no”, I thought maybe he didn’t hear me. “Please no, please don’t”. “Please no, please don’t.” “Please no, please don’t.”

Once I was told by a man that it was my fault if he ever went too far because his brain was wired like an animal. I didn’t argue. Can you believe that I didn’t argue? I wanted to say that even my dogs recognize the word “no”, but I was afraid of how he would react. I had to sit through the rest of the date with a smile on my face.

I carry my keys just to walk to the mailbox at night. I’m too paranoid to jog down my street alone.

I have been groped on the sidewalk. I have been groped at the bar. I have been groped on the bus.

The time I was followed all the way to my friend’s car by a group of men who stood around laughing and jeering and banging on the windows, not letting us pull out of the parking garage, was the last time I ever let a man buy me a drink at a bar.

I have men in my life who would call themselves my friends who have put their hands on my hips and my thighs without my permission. There is no question. They do not think they have to ask. They laugh when I bristle.

It took twenty-two years to realize only I had a right to my body.

I used to bite my tongue, but I do not say “no” quietly anymore. I bark my discomfort like an old dog, weary and uncomfortable even in its sleep.

"this is not a fucking poem; it is an outrage (I Spent Twenty-Two Years Trying To Be Nice About It)" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

They won’t remember the names of the victims, but they’ll sure remember his.

We have made violence into a media phenomenon where we will revere those who cause chaos. It takes work and dedication to be famous unless you have the strength to pick up a weapon. You ask a kid who shot JFK and they’ll sprout conspiracy theories about Lee Harvey Oswald, but you ask them what JFK even stood for and they won’t be able to respond. We don’t erase the right ones: we remember Ted Bundy but can’t name his victims. It’s broken and backwards and we reward violence with exultation instead of making sure their name is forgotten.

A man has killed seven human beings and already people are flocking to view the video he made on why he did it. His manifesto is already being passed around the internet. He is already hero status to certain kinds of lowlife scum.

And I won’t remember him. I refuse to learn his name. I refuse to watch his rant on why anyone would deserve to die and I refuse to discuss who he used to be or all the warning signs we didn’t see or what his favorite activities were. I’d much rather learn about the victims. I will not make him my celebrity. I will not let him be a part of history.

I am sorry for us today. I am sorry for every person who is scared to be called a feminist because it might result in death. I am sorry for all of us who just want to live our lives without being a victim. I am sorry that survival is considered beating the odds. I am sorry for the keys between my fingers and the glances behind me and the extra layers just in case and the heavy purse and the fighting stance and every method I have of preparing myself for the war we’re not allowed to talk about - I am sorry they do not make us that safe, that there is nowhere we can be safe unless it is alone. I am sorry for every girl who is blaming herself for the death of seven others just because she turned down a boy. I am sorry that she thinks she is guilty when there is nothing to feel guilty for.

I am sorry for the people who have lived such closed and restricted lives that they think rejection is the worst possible fate a person can go through. I am sorry for every boy who thinks that unless he loses his virginity, he’s not worthy. I’m sorry for every man suffering from mental health issues who is yet again watching as he is labeled a danger to society. I’m sorry that the quickest way we have to excuse these people is to call them crazy. I’m sorry that our society has structured it so you cannot run from what these people do. I’m sorry for every boy who likes holding hands and has a quiet soul and just wants to plant gardens and I’m sorry that they’ll tell you, “A man needs sex and violence,” I’m sorry that they’d lie to you like that. I’m sorry that if you’re a man, your shadow smells like a graveyard of our bodies. I’m sorry you’ll feel defensive because you don’t want to be known as one of them - I’m even more sorry that the more I hear “he was just so normal and such a nice guy,” the less likely I am to be trusting of you. I’m sorry that murderers don’t carry around large signs warning me off, I’m sorry that there is no way for me to determine if you’re cruel or not. I wish there was. It would save me a good deal of effort.

I am sorry for us. I am sorry for the way we feel safe for a moment only to have the ground wrenched out from under us. I am sorry how they will make this another pointless debate about gun restriction. I’m sorry for the fear every college girl suddenly feels as she sees the reactions - “he’s a hero,” “this is why every man deserves a pity lay,” “now maybe you understand the pain of the friendzone” - because for some reason, even though girls rejected a boy who would become a murderer, it’s still somehow their fault instead of a symbol of how disgusting he was. I’m sorry that girls like me want to be strong but can’t be because we’re small or quiet or filled with panic. I’m sorry that we have ways to get around turning guys down because we’re terrified of what will happen. I’m sorry that we watch while we’re told that men are like animals and will turn wild if we don’t wear the right clothes, if we don’t say the right words, if we don’t let them use their fists to tear apart this world - but at the same time, we’re told that men are the only ones fit to be leaders. I am sorry we have been raised as rainbow fish surrounded by sharks and then are told we are imagining the world wanting to swallow us. I am sorry that our skin smells of blood, that our backs are creaking with the weight of the stories we hear, I am sorry we live as whispers passed between each other, I am sorry the scars so often go unnoticed. I am sorry we will be silenced. I am sorry this poem will mean nothing in two day’s time because his actions will still ring louder than any response we could have. I am sorry we have to watch as he is defended. I am so, so, so sorry, and there is no way to fix it. People are proud of hating feminism. People are proud of a murderer. People are proud of what he did.

I am sorry for us today. I am sorry, and we are not safe.

Rest in peace. None of you deserved this. /// r.i.d
(via inkskinned)