I am not an object.

Sexualize, fantasize,

All for your pleasure.

But when I take my clothes off,

I'm a slut,

When I keep them on,

I'm a prude.

And if I stand up for myself,

Because you're rude.


I'm on my period.

Is it so shocking that I ask

For basic human rights?

Because when society tears

Away my clothes,

When it pulls my hair,

To make me slutty enough, 

It's my damn fault.

And when it silences me 

And I speak up,


"Some people have it worse."

I know what you're thinking.

'Yet another slam poem.'

Because apparently 


Is a waste of time.

Even if all girls


Society will still think that

It is right.

Because apparently

I am sin.

I am unpure because

I exist.

Yet when I wear shorts,

You can't resist

To put your hands on me.

Because apparently, 

It is my fault 

That you touched me.

Because apparently,

I am an object 

That you can play with.

Because apparently,

I am not human,

I am a doll.

Because apparently, 

My body belongs

To any pervert who claims it.

"You're too young to understand."

Oh, I understand perfectly.

I have known since I was born,

Being a girl is scary.

Because when I was six,

My brother went out alone,

But I couldn't even cross the road,

To my neighbor's house.

And when I was ten,

I couldn't get social media,

Because of perverts online.

And when I was eleven,

I had to hide the fact that

I was on my period,

Because society shuns periods. 

And when I was twelve, 

I couldn't talk to boys,

Because my parents don't trust me.

And when I was thirteen I couldn't



Because I'm a




I'll cross my legs 

And I'll spread them 

To whomever I want.


I owned my body,

The last time I checked.


If you use force, 

It's called 


I am finally tearing away

The tape,

That you put over my mouth,

And I'm gonna



This poem is about: 
My community
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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