forgive my mistakes. i wrote for you in blood that you fuel and are a part of. i wrote you me, in hopes you will remember me right.

it has been a while and i am not sorry.

"

you keep saying to me that you are sorry
and i always end up forgiving you;

this liberation that you crave somehow
i give you again and again

but feeling better about shattering my heart
isn’t something that i would want you to feel
i gave you everything that i had
and when you broke it all i picked up what
was left of me and asked you to fill in the void

you shouldn’t apologize to me anymore
because you know full well that i will forgive you:

but you do not deserve to feel better about this.

— breakups, mhz
"

i was crying at this rate:

i was holding onto your hands
and i was unable to form words
you were looking at me with
such remorse

i was demanding that you
be my lover. be my friend.

you wanted to know what i
was so horrified of - and then
i finally told you

i am scared to breathe
to touch you
to hug you
to love you because if i lose you
i won’t be able to survive
and that is all on you

and there i was sitting across
from you crying in what seemed
like agony

when all it was right then
was gratitude

-karev, 2014
"

exploitation and objectification
of a girl searching for a reason
to love herself with all her might
is not love and it is not beautiful

yet she’s told she is beautiful
for all the wrong goddamn reasons
and she becomes a common name
among men who lust after her body

and the fucking upper handed souls
argue that it’s her fault that she posted
a photo online to gain love from men

she’s taught to protect herself
and the men are given nothing short
of a high five and a guffaw

protect yourself and don’t get hurt
is not the lesson women should
be taught by their fathers and mothers

love yourself

is the lesson of the hour because
stay strong, don’t get raped,
don’t get butthurt, don’t be sad
are all the effects of a cause
brought upon those who have the most
disgusting and crude souls.

— yes all women - 2014
"

i am a young woman who has been taught
to kiss the can of pepper spray in her bag when
she is saved yet again from walking home
at night getting lost in a novel in which
the protagonist is a young woman like me
who gets to fall in love with a man so wonderful
that the existence of pepper spray should not
even exist if there were more men like him;

i am a young woman who cannot date a fool
without the fear of being told to wear his clothing
because he likes how i become a possession of his
in his mangle t-shirts rather than his other half.

i am a young woman who cannot wear a v neck
because i want to without hearing a cat call. my face
is not beautiful but the tension between my breasts
somehow can make boys have quicker breath;

the tension between my breasts is where i hold
my heart dearest and morals strong. i am not a door
than hasn’t been opened as of late and i am not a
pair of old glasses that you can take and wipe by force
in order to see into my world. frankly you think you’re
entitled to be comfortable in my world when i can’t
even thinking of living in it without writhing to my core.

i carry pepper spray to make sure fools like you
can’t see a single thing into my very own world as i
walk home with my collared, mid-thigh jacket.

— i am a young woman, mhz 
"I needed you to let go.”
—  six word storymhz 
"Let me know when you understand.”
—  six word story, mhz 
"

It’s fucking skin over a set of bones. Your body - that is. And somebody used this goddamn binary gender system to determine that the mounds and the way your skin compiles onto this “body” of yours determines if you are a girl or a boy.

And for some extremely fucked up reason, the extent of how these compiled bits are beautiful or handsome. The larger the breasts of a woman are, the more shapely her derriere equates how attractive she is. The more chiseled into eight sections or six on a man’s abdomen, the more tightly-bound muscle on a man’s deltoids somehow justify why a woman or a man should fall in love with him.

Fall in love with him? What is there to love? It is all skin and bones, and the different markings of it somehow deem it more beautiful than the last. Something about the way that his skin is darker but carved differently makes him beautiful. Sexy. Appealing. Somehow a labeled man can walk the streets that women walk on without a shirt and be allowed to.

Why is that? His skin is the same as hers. It’s fucking skin. But she isn’t allowed to walk that goddamn road without a shirt or even a bra on because it’s inappropriate.

Yet both genders are allowed to hide their determinants. The true test of gender, according to the goddamn gender system that some people testify as their holy grail, their faith. This faith isn’t the faith that those who are in denial of their determinants. Their skin may reveal a womb or a creator. Does it fucking matter? Do these two jobs stop a person from drinking a goddamn coffee as well as ordering a Chai tea latte at their favorite coffee store? Fuck no, it doesn’t.

The faith one holds in their determinants isn’t relevant to how you fucking treat them. If you were treated differently than the person across from you because your skin isn’t shaped like theirs - what would you say? What if you were offered love, but had to lose it because your skin didn’t reveal a nice enough ass or a pleasure-inducing cock?

I don’t want my fucking children to believe in this binary gender system. I don’t want them to hate. They’ll be taught that we’re all given skin and our skin equates to different jobs. But regardless of our fucking jobs from our skin, we’re totally allowed to be whoever the hell we want. If we want a pink tux or a blue wedding gown: so fucking be it. The way our skin is created is not the correct kind of beautiful if it labels us. The color, the formations it surrounds is not beautiful if it is a reason to hate.

But if love replaces that. If scars exists, if acceptance is - that’s so goddamn beautiful. Look at you. You’re in your own skin. Sure, your fucking skin rejuvenates and recreates itself every month or so. You have a chance to be new again soon. You’ve got this.

And regardless of how your skin compiles, you’re still fucking fine just the way you are. Because the way you are is the very goddamn way you believe you should be.

— rants, mhz.
©