Confessions of a street-martyr

Henna Sjöblom/Murder Tramp Birthday

Murder Tramp Birthday


Why hello! Didn’t see you there!
Was I in your way?

Hello, it’s me, the girl whose ass you slapped in the checkout queue.
Hello, I’m the one you held down on the pub floor while taking pictures of my cleavage with your iPad.
Yes, it’s me, walking bag of estrogen and fat
soft eyeballs fumbling, testing, determining my worth
barely human,
heavy with gazes
(Have you seen her? You just can’t help but wonder what her cup size is, can you?)
stuffed like a turkey with scalpels and lies and everything nice.
It’s me,
powdered cheeks and blood red lipstick
and volumized lengths that couldn’t possibly hide a brain
reckless mannequin girl
loafing around, being an easy target
all young and shallow and ripe
with self-deprecation
oh do you want me sir please tell me that you want me
I couldn’t bear to inflict this primal hunger

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I refuse to be invisible. I honor my voice. I write because I have to.

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