tw: mentionings of ****** assault, allusion to suicide, racism, abuse, sexism

“I’m starving,”
mom says,
the empty void of the refrigerator
reflecting the state of her consciousness.

Little sister
clutches at her stomach,
as if willing her hunger away
would make it disappear.

I’ve made fine food,
yet their tongues
still decry their
miserable states of hunger.

Aren't men supposed to provide
the food,
a house,
and authority?

Aren’t women supposed to provide
the meals,
a home,
and emotionality?

My dad solely remains as DNA,
threatening to make me into
an alcoholic like him
if I don’t behave.

My mom’s boyfriend
rules over us women
with cruel dominion,
making us wish we never had feelings

since we just
feel
so
violated.

His Irish tongue has the scrutiny of
the White Man’s burden
over us colored women,
his cruelty unmatched from the state of war.

When he pulls on my hair,
incessantly demanding my attention,
I remember how
he

ruined my mom’s body
after surgery,
tearing her flesh apart freshly stitched together,
and digs in, blood seeping the bedsheets.

I was just
trying to study.
Trying to further my education
of escaping from this Hell

The Hell he threatens me with
doesn’t seem so scary
when I know
the Price:

being a part of his sick fantasy
of having a harem of mother and daughters
tortured and maimed by his hand,
and our cries only met with his wails.

He already has my mother
sewn into his
game of
escaping Hell.

She acts as his demon sometimes
out of fear,
reprimanding me for
daring to keep my door shut

for daring to
not scream,
keep my thighs together
for him.

My tongue strikes
as my only act of defense
in an effort not against him,
but against a betrayal of self.

I am hungry,
in constant fear and panic,
and am knowledgeable of both how his game functions
and my inability to escape it.

Tell me,
how could Hell
be any worse
than this?

As a *****
made by his hand,
I acknowledge that
my only way to Heaven:

My Escape
lies in sacrifice.
As an ultimate display of familial piety
to my mother and sister.

I take a kitchen knife,
pouring some rice onto a plate,
before stabbing my stomach with the blade,
watching as my flesh falls onto the steaming plate.

Now,
I admit with relief,
I will go to Heaven,
and I will not hear them go hungry!

I declare in pure elation,
feeling my consciousness
previously weighed down by the burdens of a woman
finally flying free from my twisted body.

I watch
from the clouds of Heaven,
having made my sacrifice,
and see

flies collecting
over my body;
the plate is untouched.
My halo wavers atop my head.

“Please,” I whisper.
“Don’t let my sacrifice be
for nothing.”
Sister has yet to leave her room.

I recall
feeling terrified myself
when I was within the confines of mortality.
Mom is—

I see her.
She’s eating.
All this time—
she was lying?

The clouds fall from beneath me,
and my wings are plucked,
causing me to experience a pain
that rivals the first time he tried me.

I come back to life
to witness firsthand
him, with a pig-like glint in his eyes,
gouging on the meal I had prepared.

My stomach
now sliding down his esophagus
reels with hatred.
On the brink of life and death once more,

my vision flickers.
I catch glimpses of
the devil’s horns
through his ***** blond hair.

In my final moments,
I am left to ask:
Did Earth ever really exist
in the first place?

My whole life I've been taught to be good.
My whole life I've been told to be nice.
My whole life I've been made silent.

"Don't make people uncomfortable" they said.
"That's a girl's only job."

But I'm on the cold hardwood floor,
tears streaming down my face.
No way to contain these feelings anymore.
This time I won't go with grace.

When I was a girl
my mother trained me to be docile.
"If you ignore them, they will move on" she would say,
brushing the comb through my hair as I whined at every knot she pulled.
I learned to shrink,
to be an unworthy target left less blood in my mouth.
I learned to hide,
if they could not see me there would be no meat for them to pull from my bones.
I learned to be afraid,
because fear is the instinct that has left us alive.

When I was 15,
they told me I was strong
as my spine curved
to keep my head below the water
and the sun off my face,
but the more child-like my disposition
the more they wanted to hear me scream.

Now I am a woman
who pulls her hair into buns because they are harder to grab
and I no longer whine as I pull through the knots
but my eyes still water at the sting.
I have been labeled a *****
rude
bossy
annoying
but I would rather be a ***** than dead.

I used to think shrinking would make me undesirable
but being small did not stop them from devouring me.
So I have grown fangs through this smile,
made myself too big to consume
if they want to eat me
they will have to eat me as I am,
with all my sharpened edges and tough skin.
I am the woman who has grown fangs
and I will not make myself small and easily digestible for anyone anymore.
You may consume me,
but you will bleed for it.

~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.

Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.

Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.

The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,

(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).

Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.

His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.

He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.

Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...

In a world where
the value of life varies:

the inherent
priceless value of life

is snuffed in a single moment
or growing dim over the passage of illness;

taken by the individual
or someone else,

flickers away as if there was nothing there in the first place—
How do you remain standing?

Women dress like birds,
prim and proper,
ranging from
bell shape to slender.

There can be
blush on their cheeks or
soft and vibrant feathers, yet
all their hollow bones are easy to break.

They are raised in the wild,
learning to defend themselves
from both natural and manmade threats
until the pretty women are inevitably caught.

She can’t escape.
You coo, “Struggle harder, you ugly thing.”
She bites your fingers through the net, so
you toss her smaller frame against the ground.

“Women,” you scoff, deducing she must be on her period.
You know in your mind that she’s special.
She’s an exotic breed currently popular on the market.
As a local man, you’re eager to **** out your culture.

Once she is shipped to the underground,
she bounces from owner to owner,
her once vibrant plumage
now grimy.

Once, she catches a glimpse of her daughters,
and they make eye contact, yet they remain
silent
to her call.

She realizes
she doesn’t smell of herself anymore
or where she comes from—
only of the dogs that made her bleed.

Her daughters
wish their mother would apologize
for bringing them into a world where
the woman is contained by men.

However,
did their mother ever
do anything wrong?
The daughters were simply a task.

“Time to move on.”
The mother surmises,
locking away her feelings as
her next shift begins.

You stand
outside of the cage
peering between the bars with your dark eyes.
“She’s too old for me to enjoy now.”

You sigh,
casting a glance to her daughters.
“I’ll feed her to my snake.
These two girls must be fertile by now.”

You expected a girl,
your own notion of femininity.
You expected me to laugh, to talk,
but only in bubbles,
Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink.
You expected to float
on my wiles
I’d heft you up while you cruise.
Well, you get nothing.
You lose.
Good day, sir.

I started a riot
of abused women

fire in our eyes
bruises left behind

a strenght to be remembered
by a man that no longer scare us

“He looks homeless”
“Can she speak English?”
“It’s hard to take her seriously”

These thoughts have always been with me
Steeped into my thoughts
Into my beliefs
Into my actions

They hide around the corners of my mind
Always part of the background
Or they are front and center
Impossible to unsee

Sometimes I can label them in the moment
Classist
Racist
Sexist

Sometimes I can only see their influence with the distance of time
Or through another’s eyes

Where do they come from
How do they shape me
How do they shape everyone around me

How much of my essence is mine?
How many of my thoughts originate outside of me?

I think I’ll never fully know

All I can do
All we can do

Is label
Set aside
And look again