Me Hating You While You Hate Yourself For Being Like the One You Hated

Content warning: this poem depicts rape and abuse.

9 December 2013

Me Hating You While You Hate Yourself For Being Like the One You Hated

I know it’s hard, and its hard body provoked you
and my soft body provoked it to provoke you.
It’s all my fault; not its, not yours.

I know it’s hard,
like a brazen boulder obstructing your path and sight,
like the pressure of an avalanche of tears about to burst out,
like the pressure in that firm, filthy—that thing about to burst out.

You burst out laughing and bruise my already beaten thighs. 
I know it’s hard taking it in—
Trust me! I know it’s hard taking it in
that this man you hated just died. 
And you hated him for good reason, I guess.
He took advantage of your loved ones,
and beat them, made them rough, 
tough, so that no one would do the same to them, to her.
Her, with her wise lines of experience 
making paths around her projecting Pinocchio nose,
paths for dried up streams of tears.
No more tears, no more screams,
just a soft silent mourn no one hears
as she says, “I’m fine.”
Like the soft silent mourn from a hard hallowed whore—
No. A saintly sinning sister still sewing up sexist expectations
to pacify her perfect pious priest in her charming cathedral home
decorated with stained callouses.

Your history flaunts failing flaccid fiends,
weak men waiting to wean off the winter,
so their cold calloused hearts can beam.
Hypocrites hating me for false purity
stolen by you from me.
How can she be so mean to our precious baby?
They are repulsed by me because abuse is repulsive
and you couldn’t—can’t stand it. 
You couldn’t stand his, can’t stand what you make of me; 
Yet, you can and you want my comfort and I love you, so let me hold you
even though we’ve been fighting and we’re technically not together. 

Come closer, let me console you
because I’m soft and gentle and you need affection,
but try to hide your erection, don’t come
too close. I’ll kiss you, but not your lips.
Stop trying to kiss mine, stop pushing me down
into this red leather sofa heating up with the friction of your
fierce feelings—feeling me up and down with your rough,
tough hands, calloused with construction—
character building, now character breaking.
A deconstruction as you crack open your doll’s hips
like a chestnut hiding a precious gift.

Open your eyes so you can see me cry
and look away and try to hide my shame.
Still, you push me down and push yourself in
and push me down further into this red-hot hell.
And I cringe and scream silently, 
and find my streams haven’t dried yet like hers.
And I ask myself, How can he do this?
Isn’t this what he hated about him?
You say, I’m sorry. I hate myself,
blinking tears to his grave, his grave yet to be made,
his grave that will also be your grave as you bury
the prince in you that died with chivalry. 
Only, chivalry didn’t die because it never lived.
Because, as you just proved, men have always,
and will always, leave women for dead
if it means comfort for their heart and heads.

I guess, for good reason
I hate you too.
Only, I still love you.

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