The man with no name

A poem about rape culture

Her skin still remains skin even under the countless attachments of his sexual metaphors.

Why does he refer to her by the curvatures of her bottoms and her appearance that would one day rot, instead of the beauty of her heart?

It’s although “women” and “respect” can never be written in the same sentence. As girls all tremor on knees before heavy-set men, the words slut resounding in the head — derogated by boys whose names never revealed because of the fear of supposedly ruined futures receive football scholarships instead of jail sentences.

Where are the men who bring you on candlelight dinners, whisper romance poetry in ears because instead of “How was your day”, her phone is bombarded with nude requests and drooling emojis.

Does she wear that much makeup to be referred to as a ragdoll solely to be male purpose?

Maybe girls too don't see past the charm and sex appeal before they’re pulled into a cage they can't get out How is it so in the span of a month the confidence of her body completely stripped away piece by piece use cloth to hide stretch marks and stomachs with flaps under callous skin eyes devoid of innocence.

But who is she to speak up when the men always win no matter the battle if she keeps talking what makes you think her barely healed over scars won't bleed again.

Either tied to ropes or cuffs, pants not in the vision her body is for his pleasure she sits in silence threatened to not say a word never open her mouth don't flinch when he touches her thigh for him she has to bleed dry.