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.
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,
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
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.