Born To Die.
The scars tell a story her lips could never tell. The cuts & bruises told a tale never told. The words she wrote upon her skin portrayed her thoughts on how she felt. One day she sought to find some help, but all they did was call her names. She searches and searches but will find no hope until the day she dies.
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ima good friend because u can tell me anything and i won’t make u feel embarrassed or ashamed! u could say some shit like ‘girl i been having this weird discharge for like the past week’ and i’ll be like ‘wow babe are u okay?’ instead of ‘DAMN BITCH EWWW WTF’. 

(via cutely-perverted) →


You are in a box.
You can see out, but they can’t see in.
You are invisible.
No matter how hard you try, you cannot be seen.
You cannot be noticed.
You cannot be loved.

You are in a box.
You can’t see out, but they can see in.
Every last one of them.
Every mistake you make.
Every regret. →


the human body’s natural response
is to laugh
when danger is averted
the vision of the guy slipping on a banana peel
only becomes comedy
once it is understood he’s okay.

rape jokes

rape jokes are funny because
no one is actually getting raped
in America…


Desireé Dallagiacomo - “Thighs”

My thighs are always the elephant in the dressing room.
My thighs hate Urban Outfitters,
Hate Banana Republic, 
Hate fuckin’ American Apparel, 
Love the one pair of jean we wear four times a week because they’re the only ones that fit us RIGHT. 
MY THIGHS hope YOUR THIGHS have a GREAT day. →


Bodies brutalized sit in the rubble
Of his own two hands.
Five fingers on each, with five spaces between
To let the sand slip out from their grasp.

Voices becomes distant,
The space between syllables
Growing hesitant while you press on
In your forward march.

Two legs stand as a soldier… →

just because you dont agree with them doesnt mean you get to treat them badly

and this goes for everyone: neo-nazis, rapists, christians, lgbt people, sex enthusiasts, and everyone else in the world okay

because no one gets to decide what is right or wrong or who deserves to live or die,…

But Your Honor (A Poem About Rape) →


But Your Honor
How is it my fault
That a man could not control himself
How is it my fault
That he drugged me
But Your Honor
How is it my fault
When he was the one who tied my hands to the bed
How is it my fault
When he kissed my unwilling lips
But Your Honor
Does it make sense…

first kiss by k.o.g.  (via lexemur)

when you offer to walk me home,
you say
that there are demons in the dark
(if only i had known
you were speaking of yourself)

you even hold my hand
to guide me through the night
(the only hand i can offer now
is one curled into a fist)

yet before i can speak
on your slowly advancing hands
your lips slam into mine
and your hands aren’t slow any more
(i pulled away
but that just
gave you a chance to say
“you know you want it, baby”)

you shove my back against a wall
while tearing at my jeans
every ragged breath you take
is an insult to grace and care

you enter with a grunt
you silence me with teeth
‘til all i can taste is blood
(since then
no food can clear my throat
of the taste of your tongue,
so what use is eating
when no meal removes your mark?)

in response you just wipe
my blood from your lip
and spit:

(go tell your friends
that “she just likes it rough”
but will you ever tell them
that you like it best
when she can’t fight at all?)

i’ve heard you say
that i wasn’t clear
that i lead you on
(that everyone knew i was a tease)

but what makes me
shudder the most
at the touch of any man
is that i’ve given up hope
of hearing you say


"Dear Harvard" -Julia Dieter (alwaysbe-lilith)

(Source: alwaysbe-lilith)

Dear Harvard,
This is not just another plea towards justice.
This is not just another timid request of change.
You did not win this time.

We’ve been teaching our girls
to quiet their voices, lift the pitch two octaves,
to hide their teeth behind
lips sewn shut in 8th grade home ec.
We’ve been teaching our girls
to appreciate cat-calls in broad daylight,
smile and keep walking,
avoid lewd stares but don’t
make a show of it.
We teach our girls
to feign ignorance if only for a night,
let him touch you where he wants,
say no if you must,
but to him it means nothing.
We teach our girls
to hold their keys right,
carry pepper spray at night,
to know when to scream and
when to take it like a real woman.
We teach our girls
that their dissent means nothing and
boys will be boys
and there’s nothing to be done to a society that
condones sexual abuse and unwanted advances.

Dear Harvard,
You will not win this time.
We’ve been teaching our girls
to watch what they wear, to make sure there are
no skirts shorter than knee length,
no sleeveless shirts,
no cleavage,
no semblance of sensuality in their clothing.
We teach our girls
that dressing in a way differing from the practical
style of a nunnery is an open invitation for a
man to have his way with them.
We teach our girls
that their bodies are public property,
free for a man to take and
have his way with whenever he chooses.
We teach our girls
that rape happens for a reason and
that reason is we had too much to drink or
didn’t say no convincingly enough
or we secretly wanted it but didn’t
want to be labelled a slut in the morning, only to be called a
liar, attention seeker, life ruiner,
whore, sloppy, sinful,
unholy, a disgrace, when we come forward.
We teach our girls
that their rape is their fault.

Dear Harvard,
you will not win this time.
We will stop teaching our girls the commandments of
misogyny, telling them
girl, don’t bite,
don’t fight,
don’t be ungrateful.
girl, be pliable,
bend to his will,
follow the orders.

girl, you are nothing more than a sack of
skin, created to create new life,
made to submit to men,
Remember, its Adam and Eve because Lilith was too pushy
and no man wants a female who
cant keep her mouth shut but

Harvard, you will not win this time.
We should teach our girls
to be strong,
to open our mouths when the words feel like coming,
to talk to men like equals,
to cut the stitches that keep us shut in.
We should teach our girls
to demand change
when we cant walk down the street
at 3pm on a weekday without having whistles and
‘compliments’ being hurled our way.
We should teach our girls
to look him in the eye and give him the finger,
and if he protests,
give it to him anyway.
We need to teach our girls
to be women,
to be proud of themselves
to show the world what we can do without
fear of being called ‘pushy’ or ‘bossy’ or ‘selfish’
we need to teach our girls
to own their voices, to
own their bodies,
to own their opinions and make them known.
We should be teaching our girls
to always be Lilith and never be Eve,
to always demand equality even in the
face of mass opposition.
We need to teach our girls to
stand up and fight against
organizations that refuse to
take action against rapists and sexual assailants for fear of
ruining the future of someone
who stole another’s sanity,

Dear Harvard,
I promise that there will come a day
where you will never win again.

N.B., “Survivor” (via softletters)

I call his hands to the stand.
I am all wrath and sorrow now, your honor.
My cupped breasts are witnesses—victims.
I call my flesh squeezed and florid
like grapefruits to the stand.
I call my bony elbows, my knees scraped
and peeled like mango strips.
I call my ragged clothing. Let my jeans tell you
about violation, how a pair of strangers jimmied
their way in, how the walls quivered,
how safety has ceased to exist since he was here.
The words “no” and “stop” lodged in my throat
like my neck was wearing a noose.
My body is a foreign country now, your honor.
A barren land—a place he went to cleanse himself,
his venom left in me like cancer.
I find him guilty of trespassing.
I find him guilty of theft.
I find him guilty of vandalism.
He is somewhere with a gory smile
smeared across his face like lipstick, because
freedom is serene.
I find him guilty of attempted murder, your honor.
Here. Here I am,
all slaughter floors and shooting ranges,
and I am standing. I survived.

"Men Who Keep Their Eyes Closed" R.R-P (wildwritings)

(Source: wildwritings, via wildwritings)

I see you girl
with your darting eyes and feeble excuses
each time someone mentions spin the bottle.

I see you girl
in your isolation and your pain,
those eyes could tear king’s hearts out.

I see you girl
drunk at 4pm, a swallows nest of stolen eggs
teetering at the top of the tallest tree.

I see you girl
flashing fire at anyone who touches you,
a twig snapped but still clinging to the branch.

I see you girl
biting your lips each time someone asks you about
your family, who they are or where they’ve gone.

I see you girl
in your shame and fear; I see oceans crashing in
the dry edges of your lips. I see boulder’s smashing
down gorges in the furrows of your brow. I feel your
loss and anger, wisdom and guilt, strength and

I see you girl, in all the ways he failed to.
That is how you will live, there is freedom in the knowledge
that your hands will remain nimble and ferocious
where his will wither
and his fingers will snap if he ever tries to hold
you down again.

A Love Song For The Revolution, Camryn McCulloch (via civilghosts)

ladies, remember,
‘you’re a woman, not a sailor’
‘cross your legs’
and ‘don’t forget your place’

ladies, remember,
a bruised lip is a love letter
and a cracked rib is a gift

ladies, remember,
when he presses you to the bathroom stall
spitting dirty words and adrenaline down your throat
what sounds like warfare, is a proclamation of love

ladies, remember,
you are not a dog chained up outside the supermarket
it is not up to you to bark when he begs
or roll on your back when he tosses you a bone

ladies, remember,
a fist full of hair is not a doormat screaming ‘welcome’

ladies, remember,
when he tells you he hates the way your thighs move
or the way you speak in slang and leave cigarette ash like bread crumbs
just remember –
you don’t owe him your body,
your experiences, your passion
your neck to snap, or your wrist to break


This is why I need feminism.

I need feminism because people cannot accept my body like that of a man’s. I need feminism because two extra glands and a bit more fat on my chest suddenly sexualizes my areola to the point where I am expected to cover up. I need feminism because my natural body hair is something to be ashamed of; where as on a male body, it would be ‘sexy,’ ‘hot,’ or perhaps even ‘mature’.

I need feminism because the act of simply taking my shirt off may ‘tempt a rapist’ or ‘make myself a target’. While as when a man would do take his shirt off or strip down a layer, no one would think twice. I need feminism because the men and women who say this things have daughters; they have sisters and mothers and aunts and grandmothers. Tell me, if they were to be raped, would they have ‘made a target out of themselves’?

I need feminism because I am ‘asking for it’ if I expose myself in any way. I am ‘tempting the rapist’. He is not crossing boundaries in their eyes, no; I am at fault. I am asking for it, I am asking for attention, I am asking for my body to be sexualized.

I am NOT asking for it.

I need feminism for my younger sisters. I need it for my best friend and my girlfriend and me. I need equality, security. I need to be able to feel safe in a world as woman; but the world I live in right now is not that world.

My voice is silenced as a woman, as a female, as a girl.

But not anymore.

Boys will not be boys. I am not asking for it. Do not shame my body, do not shame the way in which I chose to present my body, do not hold double standards for me.

I am tired and sick of this world I am living in. And now I’m done. I am making the change. I am stepping forward to stop the rape culture I live in. No longer will I stand by.

Because you are not just talking about the woman above in the picture. You are talking about your daughters, sisters, mothers, girlfriends, wives. And she is brave enough to stand up for them while you sit back behind a computer screen, shaming and oppressing the destruction of rape culture. Shame on you.

I’ll stand up for us even if you won’t. →


The rape joke is
I was six when I found out the world is cruel
And that sex didn’t mean love

The rape joke is
When he finished
I got strawberry icecream
So I wouldn’t cry
Loud enough for his
Parents to hear

The rape joke is
When I taste strawberry now
I gag because all I taste is him


Okay, seriously, everyone watch this, you won’t regret it

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