But then there’s the type of man

When I say I don’t feel well and ask to just stay in today he said “of course” and says he will take care of me. But then there’s that type of man which smiles because they don’t have to spend money for Netflix and chill.

When I say I am cold he wraps me in blankets and holds me close to his chest. But then there’s type of man who ignores you, proceeds to remove your clothes, and says “oh baby don’t worry I will make you feel better.”

When I say I am I tired he lays with me and runs his fingers through my hair until I fall fast asleep. But then there’s the type of man that will kiss you, hold you down, and fuck you because he’s not tired so, “open up for daddy”.

When I tell him my throat hurts he warms up some soup to ease the pain. But then there’s that type of man which will tighten his grip only releasing to shove himself down your throat, because he thinks his magic fucking jizz will cure all your problems. Who needs medicine when you have a man to fuck you right?

“Hold still, come on baby I can make you feel good.” As he shoves into you roughly. Your body moves with him involuntarily, while every other part of your being shuts down waiting for it to be over. He holds you down because he doesn’t need to get consent; he is only raping you after all. And really what is rape except a few minutes of his pleasure and you being spread open for his ego to fill you? His male privilege deep inside where it does not belong. His ears trained to hear your “no” and screams as consent, moans, and “yes daddy fuck me harder.” This is the type of man raised by our patriarchy, a rapist.

Pretty Blue

I found the pretty blue pen, which hides pretty dark things in pretty mediocre blue font. My pretty blue eyes hiding pretty blue lies with my pretty little smile that is shown everyone once in a while. Pretty lucky to be seen as so dang pretty. I should be pretty grateful for my pale skin and Barbie doll blonde hair. Perfectly shaded pink lips, but I have always hated perfection. So I bite them until pain screams in red. Pretty little white girl with the bleeding lip, with the bleeding heart, and with the bleeding soul. My blood drips from my eyes in clear drops. It vaporizes in my lungs, then leaves my mouth. My pretty little mouth. Good for one thing so down on my knees to satisfy his needs. He tells me I am pretty, so I must be pretty grateful. Pretty meaningful because the words of a man have always been made to determine a woman’s worth. A pretty world were being pretty is pretty much everything. So thank fucking God he thinks I’m pretty. Because if I wasn’t I’d be pretty useless and pretty ignored. Pretty unsuccessful in a world where looks are the only way to climb ladders except one. If I weren’t pretty I’d be pretty torn up in my head from the lack of value, which should have been found on my skin. But it wasn’t my skin. It was never my skin. Never me. If I weren’t pretty I probably hate myself. Probably be pretty suicidal. Probably be climbing that one ladder I can touch with my unwanted skin. A ladder up to the heavens gates. The only place where my unpretty might be accepted. Might. Might not. Maybe God himself would look at my pretty ugly face and send me down. Down to hell. Where my skin would burn off my bones and then I would finally be the same as everyone else. The pretty unperfect people. The pretty accepted people. Hell, the only place where an ugly person may belong.

An Ode to My Hickies

Sweet sore discoloration worn proudly on my body,

screaming it’s okay to be sexual.

Yes, I am a young woman,

a woman whose neck has met the mouth of someone else.

My dear hickies,

I shall not hide you and all that you represent.

I raise my chin high after a night with my man,

not ashamed,

never ashamed,

despite social stigmas.

I raise my chin high

high enough to show the markings of possession sucked across my neck.

His markings of ownership,

which represent the power of my submission.

The strength I found through letting go,

in trusting him,

in loving him.

My beloved hickies,

marks upon my skin raising awareness of judgement.

Yes, I am a young woman

with hickies on my neck,

not afraid of being called young and dumb

or slut.

And the bruises left upon my skin are a reassurance,

a promise to my mind that I am loved.

A reminder that I am not alone.

Each time the soreness throbs in my neck

I feel him here.

I feel the desire to live, to love, to heal.