Saturday, October 11, 2014

Just Write

We struggle to take down

that ideal

          of feminine beauty

we are more than our good looks

our exposed pussy

our perky tits

our pouty lips

and we cry to be something more

and we are

of course we are.

But while you were talking


                         exposing your pussy

                    and your tits

and your pouty lips

            and using large words

            that complicate your sentences

that mean nothing

to me

in the end

            my mind wandered.

I thought about

a man

on a pedestal.

     I thought of a bonafide idol to worship.

     Naked and muscled and ridiculous

and delicious.

Then I wondered

if I had

thought something wrong

inside my mind.

Simple thoughts of judgement

pass way above me

red wine helps to slide it along

moving it along

never ending

just as ridiculous as that man up there.

Looking like something I will eat when nobody is watching.

To untether myself for just a moment means this;

I sail out on a ship that is always moving

never arriving

And I questioned whose side I am on.

I counsel myself.

Don't think like this:

don't want don't desire don't lust don't eat don't drink don't take

And certainly



Stay away from all that

forbidden fruit

Girl, don't cause a stir



            take up

                  no space


       no movements


             of necessity.

You want to talk about this?

You want to reiterate the things you think you know?

                 All you think you know to be true?

  Rape doesn't always


              and sometimes

              it does

               rape doesn't always


         neatly tied

in a bow

  of blows to the eyeball

that leaves bruises

for cops to record

or busted knees

or broken heals

that offer proof

of a nightmare lived out loud.

It doesn't always show up with a bright neon sign

    that blinks


                  like rooms for rent

                              by the hour.

Nor does it come

to us

in the form

of danger

in the dark of night.

Or strangers

in the dark of day.


it is the boy you loved

sometimes it is the friend

 you trusted.

Sometimes it washes over you

like poison down your throat.


     in a pretty glass

     it went down smoothly

everything went down down down

     until it hit you

          in the gut

          in silence

          in darkness

          in solitude
          in isolation


it  rips your heart

                     straight out

just the same

                 it comes out

and is born

                 in blood

                 through the hole

                 in your heart.

The name is not attained.

Nothing left to call it

only years

               to define it

and it is all so tedious.

It becomes

a chore

in time

to listen

to all those pretty words


to cover up

all that not-so-pretty using.

I search for something a little more to my taste.

So, that pedestal over there?

With that man

         on it?

           In my mind?

He looks pretty damned good

to me.

I bring him down

and we level

eye to eye

and the rest

    they say
              is history.

And that feminist writer

who lived

and died

before ever I was thought up

in the mind of God?

She tells me to just say it

shrug off my shame


let these scarlet thoughts


and talk about

that mouth

that look

those eyes

talk about

those arms

wrapped around

            and around

                 and around.

And while you were talking

of your right

to mutilate

your own body

at will


while you were discussing

the right

to do the same

to other creatures

lurking in inner space

I thought of the mess

that got us all here

in the first place.

I thought

of the human race

how weak how strong how much we all are

and then, I pulled back the skin

of my thoughts.


who tried

to cut me

to cut



           with your liberated tongue

                      slicing my sensitive parts

                      my personal life.

            All else passed away

And here I remain.


I let the wound breathe fresh air

Everything tingles.

          I think of strong arms

sinewy strength.

A man with the weight of fire wood

               slung across his shoulder.

For kicks.

Because I like the smell

of sawdust

chain oil

fresh air

and mixed gasoline.

I thought of the sweat on his forehead.

I digressed into the perfection of my female desires.

This is not about love

nothing about this is romantic

nothing here to fit that mould.

I realized I wasn't too sure

if I was part of the bigger problem.

Or not.

         As for me?

It has never been about my right to procreate.

It is about permission to become selfish

to quench my own thirst

to admit

            I do not


                      to care

                     for others

                     all the days

                     of my life.

I do not want

to be

constantly entangled

in little arms


sticky fingers.

As for me

I want to be entangled

                in big arms

                and sticky legs

I want to feel



the sound

of heavy breathing

              in my ear.

To worship


               in selfish ways.

To satisfy myself

                and him.

               Because it's fun.

And nothing more.

Pleasure. Plain and simple.


Is this the ultimate sin?

Or prize?

Or liberation?

Am I a slave?

Or am I finally free?

I am not sure.

I have never been sure.

Shouldn't we know our tethers?

Who can say for sure?

                 She tells me to write it down anyway.


                from her grave

                she tells me

               just write.



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