This is My Body

Spoken Word – posted with permission – by Agnes Török

“I came over here to clarify, that this is my body…”

Please check out her website Agnes Torok to check out more of her work and what she does!

~This Body~

I survived abuse,
I have abused myself.
I’ve survived trauma,
Trusted hands still scare.
My body has been broken,
my flesh pierced- not by choice.
I emerged with a louder voice!
I am not a victim,
But I’m in pain every day.
I fight for my body,
I fight…

A Body of Hope

A bar love poem (a note to drinkers)

With a new job interview on monday and the hope of getting out of bar work, I wrote a little poem about how i feel some of the men treat female bartenders..obviously not all are like this but I would say at least half of the men that come into the bars I have worked in in the last 5 years have been.

Your suit hangs looser than the magnum condoms your girlfriend buys
You’re drinking in my bar while she’s out talking to other guys
You tell me your sob story and ask what I would do
But if I were yours I’d probably be cheating too

You don’t even have work to do,
You could be at home trying to work things through
Maybe wine and dine, dinner for two
But you chat me up hoping I’ll go home with you

I’m more than half your age
And I don’t care about your hourly wage
Your only worth to me is the drinks you buy
And the amex card that you wave

My hourly wage is enough
I don’t need you to “take care of me” and “buy me stuff”
I’m not surprised your girls not there when you wake up

I serve men like you on a daily basis
Looking at girls with want on their faces
Grabbing arses and starring at tits
Who get offended when told “back off you cant have this”

I suggest approaching from a different angle
Take your drink and just be thankful
I don’t want to be in your twisted love triangle.

By Mollie – 21

Haikus about my body, my being

I’m a college lecturer in Media and English, a book reviewer and blogger.

Motherhood was and is a challenge for me. Not because I don’t feel like a mother or feel too lazy to bother about what it takes to be a mother. But because, I have a day job, I read a lot and I balance a household’s work. And add a two year old to it, and you have a masala! But I love it. Absolutely have no regrets about having conceived when I did, and having had a baby when I did! And by God’s grace, my husband and long-time friend, Terence Joseph is a gem. Hehe I know all wives would say that!

Below are a few Haikus I wrote after childbirth, last year.

Every drop of milk
of mine
is yours forever.

At the breast –
serene face,
watchful eyes.

Come, my child
let’s play
just you and me.

Shhh, he’s asleep
dreaming dreams
of tomorrow.

Starting to speak,
but even mama,
can’t comprehend.

A lover’s bed
memories that linger on.

And a short poem:

My body, A vessel

We were one,
You took shape inside me,
grew your limbs and eyes.

A speck that you once were,
a mere dot in a vast sea
now a little man yourself.

Our hearts used to beat in rhythm,
Now you lie on my chest,
my heartbeats lulling you to sleep.

My belly grew as you were designed,
The ridges and valleys still visible
on my stretched tummy.

The weight of life inside,
each day a new beginning,
each night a new feeling.

They told me it’d be sleepless nights,
now I wait for your sweet laughter,
to ring in my dreams.

Pain it was, searing through me,
Ripping my being apart.
I held back tears and groans,
Knowing it was you all along.

I gave you life,
And you gave meaning to mine.

I am a mother. A vessel.


Your Body

Many thanks to Mythili for sending us this great poem. Mythili recounts her experience of growing up in the South Indian state of Kerala. Even after moving away from what she calls her first home, some scars remain deep. They are given voice through this poem about the Indian woman’s body.

your body

your body is not your own,
when it is owned, it is owned.
not by you, by your patronymic name
and when you grow up, by your wedded name.

your body is not your own,
when it belongs, it belongs
not to you, to your husband when he plays
and when you give birth, to your birth helper.

your body is not your own,
when it pains, it pains
not because of you, by the glaring gaze
and when you dress, by your invitation to play.

your body is not your own,
when it bleeds, it bleeds
not because of you, by the masked vigilante
and when you cry, by the misery of your doom.

your body is not your own,
when it satiates, it satiates
not you, the hungry passersby
and when you crumble, by the masochist ego.

your body is not your own,
when it breaks, it breaks
not because of you, by the Suleiman’s hand
and when you fall, by the megalomaniac.

your body is not your own,
when it is chained, it is chained
not because of you, by history
and when you die, by the daughter you leave behind.

We love when you send us things! You can always reach us at or tweet us @project_naked. Art, poems, writing – however you want to tell the story of your body, we want to hear it.

Every Curve is a Word

We have been sent this incredible poem. Massive thanks to Emily Linstrom, a writer, photographer and burlesque/sideshow performer who wrote this and sent us in a beautiful (and freaking hot!) photo to accompany it.

Every Curve is a Word

There have been many hands in my life
reaching, grasping, groping, clapping
tapping me like a keg marked “Woman”

When you’re given a woman’s body while still a child, I tell you
it’s nothing short of a curse
some spiteful Grecian goddess’s punishment
for catching the eye of her ram’s head husband

My parents wanted a ballerina, blonde swan with limbs like willow whips
and narrow hips that wouldn’t spell s-e-x wherever they went,
make a mutiny of whatever she wore
I’ve been called a whore while still a virgin,
treated like a morsel for men who stand on the street
and suck their teeth like beggars at a movable feast,
I’ve been told I’m poetry/pornography in motion

I can see why Lilith bailed on the garden,
thigh high in serpentine lingerie and
munching vertebrae like apples;
How do we teach our daughters to disinherit centuries of bodies
piled up like the walls of Jericho, glowing through witchburning embers
impaled on pillars of salty erections, members of a crusade
against a single strand of DNA?

Women, we are the many bones and skins of a single body:
we are one body
one woman
we too can move like a golem powered by the hands of
our damned ancestors
we are Willendorf-wide,
an avenged child bride who eats the meat of her bad education.


Beauty – Cameron Lincoln

Although not written by someone who identifies as a woman, I came across this poem by Cameron Lincoln on twitter – @Cameron_Lincoln – and thought it was beautifully written and worth sharing.


Every inch is delightful, every fold, every curve.
Each mole and each scar, every raw exposed nerve.
Every muscle that stretches, every bone that protrudes.
All part of the radiance your body exudes.

The rubenesque flesh, squeezed into jeans.
There’s nothing excess, and you burst at the seams.
Those toned twin orbs of a gym-fit delight.
That trunk full of junk, it’s fulsome, just right.

Those abs, crunched and honed, are steely and taut.
The top of the muffin, paid for and bought.
That sweet little paunch, it shivers and sways.
The big curvy belly you’re proud to display.

The flat canvas of chest beneath tiny pert buds.
That pair of sweet treats, to squeeze and to rub.
The mighty, firm mounds you chose to augment.
Those huge hanging gifts of nature’s intent.

The dove white complexion, that burnished bronze hue.
The ebony landscape, caramel, you.
Flaming red hair, or sunshine-bright gold.
Pitch-black or brown, a joy to behold.

The spectrum of colour, of shapes and of size.
Every shade beautiful in the right beholder’s eyes.
Yours and unique, a treasured possession.
Wear it with pride, you’ll be someone’s obsession.

Your imperfect perfections are you to the core.
Embrace them, empower, leave them wanting more.
Your dancer’s hips and your two left feet.
Your breath, tart and fruity, and utterly sweet.

The knots in your hair, that lopsided grin.
The rasp in your laugh, your cute dimpled chin.
Your poise and your grace, your oft-clumsy strides.
It’s in every last piece of you where beauty resides.

Some may say fat, some chubby, some curvy
But there’s nothing finer than a confident girlie.
Be skinny, be scrawny, be narrow, be small.
But be you, be yourself, and be proud most of all.

Lincoln’s blog is actually filled with romantic erotica and so for those that might be interested, it can be found here Cameron Lincoln