A Well-Bred Bitch

By Amy Thomson

“Here, let me explain…”
the sweet mating call
penetrates her
slowly steaming silence.
intellectual peacock
feathers flare.
Eyebrows raise,
face feigns interest,
reacts with contrived courtesy.
The teapot screams on mute.
His facts are wrong.
This is my field.
How do his lungs hold so much breath?
A well-bred bitch
swallows opposition,
washed down with blood
from biting her tongue.
A well-bred bitch
digs valleys
with nothing but fingernails,
peels cuticles
like Thanksgiving yams.
A well-bred bitch
remembers to nod
as his drones cut
the bitter cocktail
of condescension.
A well-bred bitch
serves soft smiles for dinner,
not chilled facts from the fridge.
For a well-bred bitch
is aware of the fragile
china in front of her,
passed down through generations.
One wrong touch
and it shatters.
She prefers IKEA.



By Amy Thomson

Can I get a revolution with a side of fries, please?
Can I get a transformation, hold the fucking lies, please?
Can I get a reformation, choke it down with my rage?
Can I get some dedication so we make the same wage?
We’re radical, original, principal, and pivotal.
Constitution, restitution, institution, execution.
Politicians in my pussy, white men talking ovaries.
Baby saviors run the clinics, armed with beaded rosaries.
Are we stupid for demanding bodily autonomy
when our tits and asses run this Free Market Economy?
“Sit down, baby baby, you’re so cute when you’re mad.”
“Calm down, baby baby, ditch this women power fad.”
“Smile for me, baby baby, strut that ass down the street.”
“Shake it for me, baby baby, you’re my fucking piece of meat.”
Exist, resist, assist, persist.
Exist, resist, assist, persist.



Asking For It

By Amy Thomson

Short, tall, skinny, skinny.
Smart, dumb, pretty, pretty.
I’m just a bored girl
begging for attention.
I’m just a mean bitch,
pushing his detention.
I’m just a dumb slut,
asking for oppression.
I’m just a loud cunt,
screaming for progression.
Dark street,
short skirt.
Asking for it,
asking for it.
Red cup,
drunk night.
Asking for it,
asking for it.
Either way I’m getting hurt.
Red lip,
wide hip,
I can hear his pants unzip.
Bare face,
court case,
Stupid not to carry mace.
Stay safe,
stay inside.
Rebel grrrls will be denied:
Sympathy, security,
sanity, stability,
consideration, contemplation, cerebration, cogitation.
The presence of my pussy means I’m
asking for it
asking for it.


This is Easier

By Amy Thomson

Wake up and pour a
black cup of coffee
zero calories.
Pour yourself into
the hourglass mold
of a flat tummy
and chiseled cheekbones
accompanied by
some nice thick thighs and ass.
Pour the rest into
overflowing breasts.
Learn to move through space
in the third person.
Be weary of how
your thighs spread on the bus seat
and suck in your gut.
Paste on your smile
when men demand it.
Don’t forget that you
exist for their eyes.
Be flattered at the
voice yelling, “Nice tits!”
from the passing car.
It’s a compliment.
How dare you try to
read a book in a
coffee shop, bus stop, or park.
You are in a public space,
and he approached you
Of course you owe him
your time, attention,
your pussy.
Ignore the old man
licking his cracked lips
while checking you out.
Your skirt is too short
and your top too low,
so this is your fault.
Let your date that night
start kissing you
despite your polite
He bought you dinner.
Fuck him so he won’t
get mad.
This is easier
than you demanding
This is easier
than you living
in fear.
This is easier
than you risking
This. Is. Easier.


An Uncomfortable Shade of Gray

By Amy Thomson 

Hand slides up my thigh,
hot breath in my ear,
“You’re so beautiful.”
“It’s, uh, getting late.”
“You got a bedtime?”
“I’m really tired.”
“Let’s get in your bed.”
“Work in the morning.”
He’s touching my breasts,
Try to laugh it off,
You can’t be rude though.
My shirt is off now,
He takes out his phone,
He forgets the flash.
My nervousness turns
To full-body fear.
He’s kissing my lips
And I’m letting him.
Where did my voice go?
Why did she leave me?
There’s fight, flight, or freeze.
I didn’t want to
Offend him.
Excuses tried to
The situation.
Easier than no.
I don’t fight it at all,
I turn right over
Bite the couch cushion
That night, I learned to


Societal Cancer

By Amy Thomson

It’s everywhere.

Down the street,

Smile beautiful,
Smile baby,
Smile bitch.

On the bus,
eyes crawl my skin,
like fire ants.

In the news,
my pussy
public debate.

At the bar
hawk eyes
guard my drink.

In the schools,
voice muted,
Don’t be a showoff.

At the office,
I take charge,
I’m a bitch,
or fucking the boss, of course.

My one purpose
but don’t be a whore.

It seeps into
the hairline cracks
of society.

Rapid metastasis,
it feasts on
the dreams of young girls.

I occupy
too much space,
not just my ass on a park bench,

but my shrill, whiny voice
to be heard.

Hear me shout,
Hear me yell,
Hear me scream,
For I am one of the lucky ones.

My white shield
protects me from bullets,

My spry limbs
allow me to fight,

My zip code
lets me write this poem,

My identity
saves my life.

I’m still just a woman.