MeToo Seeking Honest Critique Poems

Pops told me that even us good girls start and end as dust and that the in-between was simply horseshit sticking both parts together.
 
Mama said that even though we might dust and clean, we was created from more than just dirt. That the rib of a Man crafted us good girls.
 
Imagine that. Here we stand, and work, and sit quiet--like good girls do--all because of you and your extra bone.
 
We kneel down, eat dirt; and, when you are done, we dust it off of our knees, spit it out of our mouths and get back to our chores, like all good girls do.  
  ...

Me too"
moves forward.
We can finally speak our truth and be heard.
Let go of the shame we were made to carry
by guilty phrases
whispered in dirty words
as you shrugged off your responsibility
to be more than just baser instinct,
animalistic...

then said WE couldn't handle the pressure
of better jobs
at higher pay.

Why did we ever BELIEVE you?
We work under more pressure
than you can fathom
just shouldering the weight
of your consequences.

Me too rings true in the young girl...

Theme: #metoo DUP
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Only few knows, why I write
I am mute
Let my head work.
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It was one of those dark nights
That changed me, but rather than a fragment
It altered my whole sense of being
Confusion, puzzlement
As I hit replay on the memory once more,

I had planned to go out with only my friends
The two people I nearly trusted with my life
But then he decided to come along
The boy I thought I loved,
Who everyone warned about,
The cheater, the liar, the troublemaker

I argued,
Told them it would go badly,
And they brushed me off

So at Ice Cream Hill
We met at...

the day haunted me      
& the night offered no shade      
     
the moon laughed      
while i run from demons      
the sun witnessed      
& turned away      
     
my pain to bare alone      
i harbor it      
travail as a woman in labor      
   
i give birth to it      
& name it      
i call him shame      
     
hide him from the world      
covet his nature      
& feed him my loneliness      
     
he grows      
in the empty places       ...