(Inspired by the Stanford ex-swimmer’s rape case about a month ago, I wanted to share with you a poem that I had wrote before the incident. While not exactly related to what went on, it nevertheless touches on issues of sexual abuse, underage prostitution, and moreover, the need for feminism in today’s day and age. Trigger warning in advance; thank you for your support).
She’s too young like the night to know
consent from dissent, like how you broke her
before she could break herself.
You kissed her on where the money’s at,
clipped her clit like a pin until she came,
sinned “Daddy” between climaxes of each song
played as you nibbled her ear and whispered,
“I know you wanted it, Sugar.”
Listen: she’s more than just ten dollars
left on the desk when the time’s up;
good riddance to thirty minutes of good
fucking around on a mattress that
squealed under your weight—
No, I don’t buy your promises; they’re nothing
but guilt under the pretense of a jilted lover
who was robbed of value for being bottom
to your top.
— The Finicky Cynic
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