Showerhead

Water drops bursting again my skin,

burning my arms red

until the pain begins

to overwhelm me. The showerhead

doesn’t stop even when I internally beg it to.

It reminds of you.

How couldn’t you see that what you did was wrong?

Salt

Quick heart beats in cold vacant parking lots.

The tight grip, heavy breaths,

sweat.

My face shoved down hard into his backseat,

the fabric rug burned onto my cheek.

The smell of air freshener and sorrow.


His tongue tasted of the salts of my skin when he kissed me goodbye and said “I love you.”

If only I said goodbye to myself too:

a subtle wave, 

a tear.


Every salt, every atom of my sanity was stolen from me that night

Now I am bland: baggy hoodies and layered clothing,

unfun,

unlike those free “wild” girls

showing their bodies with pride.


My pride on a platter,

picked away from his teeth with a toothpick

until all that remained was nothing.


Our friends keep asking if I’m okay.

He smiles in their faces, puts his arm around me;

I say, “of course!”

I put on this show day after day,

month after month.

He says “I love you.”

Our friends applaud with so cutes and awww how sweets,

but I say nothing.

Head hung low, my eyes tell all,

whispering truths to the pavement.


He kisses my cheek…

it burns.

He says “I love you”

“Awww how sweet”

But this time,

I raise my head,

chin high, tears running down face,

My voice stern with anger,  “HOW SALT!”

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.

Cat Calls and Homophobia

Cat calls and short skirts high enough for fingers to wander. To feel. Daddy issues passed from generation to generation. Taunting men and begging to be raped, the same way little girls dreamed of growing up alone and broken. Whispered sweets in little boys ears. Bent over tables, beaten, and invaded. Daddy issues passed on like knives and guns in the Bronx. Little boys becoming “men” with the bitter hate of homophobia forced into them. Clothes shattered and torn like our society’s morals shredded to create a sexist, homophobic, demonic ground for “men” to walk on. The bones of the victims crunching to make music for their ears. Different melodies and pitches screaming out their suffering and faced discriminations. Passive women obeying their kings. Nothing more than a disapointment to the eye. Mommy issues are hereditary like diseases spread in our DNA.

A Few of My Flaws

I am so stuck.

This pit of emptiness absorbs me.

Everything’s black.

There’s nothing.

My shoulders circle uncomfortably.

My grip tightens.

I pull my hair to try to find grounding.

I hyperventilate until I am on the brink of death.

My fingers run down my thighs,

smooth to rough to smooth.

My cuts smile back at me proud.

Another cut, another day I fought to stay alive.

The desire to scream.

The feeling of it not being okay, never forgiving myself.

I never fought back, didn’t yell for him to stop.

My passive anger remains bottled.

Rape

Dark,

it’s so dark.

The air’s moist and smells of sweat,

but not a single scent of regret.

The feeling lingers

with marks and scratches from his fingers.

Blood,

I, I taste blood.

But the flavor of his skin remains

in my mouth which he stole and claimed.

And I swallow,

then realize my lungs are hollow.

Breathe,

just breathe.

I choke down air

now that his hands aren’t there.

Now he’s gone

and I no longer have to play along.

Blurred,

my vision blurred.

But I still could see his face

as he threw me down into this place.

I am lost.

I was someone’s opportunity cost.

Left,

they just left.

Then I was all alone with him

and the room felt of grim.

Then it began

as he held me down with his hands.

Now.

What now?!

Forever a victim of rape.

with trauma I can’t escape.

And scars

which will never be mentioned in the memoirs.