Reply by Daliah

Posted on November 8, 2013 by


This is a series of independent replies;

from a self-confessed manic with an inconsistent thought pattern,

and a wide range of emotions.

Who thinks that everything that comes out of her mouth is golden,

despite the fact that her built-in supply of weed has reached full capacity.

Yes. I’m talking about myself in third person.

I’m serious.



To my late gold-fish Danny,

Dear Danny,

I hope the dirt treats well.

Sorry for the hours I kept you unburied…

You deserved better.

But if a promise to remember

your body swimming in murky water,

the little air bubbles you greeted me with,

and that time I found you abandoned 7 months ago,

counts for anything, then I’ll always remember you.

Rest in peace, my little angel.



To Robine Thicke’s,

“What a pleasure it is to degrade women,

I’ve never gotten to degrade women,

I always respected women.”


The lines aren’t blurred, they’re clearly defined.

Something shit heads like you find it hard to find.

There a fine line between flirtation and predation.

Between empowerment and, “I will give you something big enough to tear your ass in two.”

How dare you tell me you made anthem of feminism?!

You know what,

I get it.

You hash tagged ‘thicke’.

Referring to you dick.

To your 2 inch dick.

The lines don’t need to be blurred;

they’re pixilated.

And yes, this is still to the size of your dick related.

But, you know?

I’d still fuck you though.


I know you want it,

I’m sure you want it,

I’ll make you want it.

Oh wait, did I objectify you? Maybe a little bit horrify you?

Sorry, I was just starting a movement against male discrimination.

Let me better the image.

Let me better that image for you.

Close your eyes

and imagine you stand,

scantily clad

in your D-bag Headquarters.

Pharrel stroking your hair

and T.I. whispering in your ear,

“I hope you swallow.

You love to swallow.”

I know you’d take it

I know you want it

P.S. You’re a hay in a hay stack…

But beware of the rise of the needle.



I’m running a fever of 38,

I don’t only feel red,

but I see red.

To the guy who called me a rape apologist,

Dear Guy,

Thank for the reminder,

but I would like tell you where to shove it.

See, at school, they told me I should cover up;

head to toes one shade of black.

They taught me that my skin was a call

signaling all wolves to come into position,

giving them permission,

to take my body as a sexual possession…

I was 9.

See, they used commodities for me as metaphors,

“Little girl, you’re a peanut its shell, a diamond in the rough, you’re a cake,

if you take of its box long enough, it turns stale, spoiled, no one would want to buy it.”

I’m a cake.

They gave an expiration date.

I’m cake,

I am a cake,

and if I say I owned my body, I’ll be burned at the stake.

My voice: forbidden.

My perfume: adulteress.

The clicking sound of my heal: temptress.

I’m a walking abomination, sent to lure all men into temptation.

I was brought up on shame.

On “You only have yourself to blame.”

When I grew from little to young,

I walked counting my steps turning left and right.

I never went to the doctor alone,

because I remembered how someone I knew got harassed.

I heard:

“When I grew from little to young,

there was this man

who told me he liked the way sung.

How he talented I was, how beautiful I was, how smart I was.

Then he said, ‘Girl, you’re all sugar and spice,

but you’ll have to show me something nice.

My dick entice.’

I said, ‘STOP!’

‘Oh baby, no, you’re part of something special.’

6 months ended in a jerk off session…

He was a nice guy… I only had myself to blame.”

To the guy who called me a rape apologist,

When I learned what consent meant,

I was 18.

Then I heard:

“I grew to realize that he wasn’t a friend of mine,

the benefits came from my end and never his.

He wasn’t a nice.

I wanted more than anything to castrate him.

It replays in my head from time to time:

Him laying on a bed naked,

laughing while he listened the sound of me on the other line crying.

See, I look back and think

the grip on my phone was my only guard.

Because I think

if I had met him face to face,

I would been raped by a rape apologist,

punished by a society of rape apologists,

and continued to fulfill the prophecy of me being a damn rape apologist.”

See, my tolerance level for insults is pretty high,

So much bullshit with me can fly.

But not being told that I’m a rapist sympathizer.

I want to shoot you with a fucking tranquilizer!

Because you could have spent a moment of education,

or just told me that I was a moron!

No thanks to you, now I see where I made a mistake;

She was intoxicated.

He shouldn’t have closed that door.

He shouldn’t have turned back when she called him.

He shouldn’t have laid next to her.

He should not have let her touch him,

and the name of her boyfriend leaving her lips instead of his

should NOT

have been the reason that made him want to leave her room.

He was a creep,

she would have felt uncomfortable if she had been sober.

But you’re an asshole for assuming,

that for a second, I would entertain the thought

of excusing a criminal.

So take your misplaced social justice and shove up your ass.

My tears aren’t fucking worth your entitled rage,

and most of all, fuck you for calling me a rape apologist.



Dear Justin Bieber,

I want to hit you with a sneaker.

Dear Justin Bieber fans,

JB will never attempt to penetrate you,

so get a grip young lady because this going to be a roller coaster ride.

See, I would like to explain to you the industry.

From a rational perspective it’s quite destructive,

But in the world of business,

you’re the cash machine, and he’s the register.

See, Bieber doesn’t care if you’re a teen or tween.

His songs aren’t written for your sake;

he just want your parent’s money.

Because if they were he wouldn’t look down on you and spit.



If I let myself to my own devices,

I would a millionaire for each time I wrote ‘cheesy’ in a poem.

I’ve come to terms that cheesy is my middle name.

That being said,

there are still so many replies left,

but they’re all ugly.

So I want to end this on a good note;

A love note.

But first, I hate the number 6.

I’m skipping to 7.



When you flip this page,

You’ll find a letter,

from my lover,

Telling me he loves me.

And me gracing his declaration with,

“It’s your pleasure, and you had damn better.”

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