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Literature Text
the temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a girl i remember growing up with is crying in my bathroom
right now and i have to go and try to convince that
her life is still worth living. how can i look her in the face
and tell her that bodies are temples,
that her body is precious, that her gods are strong and holy and
they will do anything to protect her sacred flesh?
how can i possibly stomach anyone ever complimenting
her again when i’ve heard her whisper the words he told her,
in the dead of night, when we’re holding onto
each other in the middle of a hurricane. “he called me pretty,”
she says. pretty. like pretty is a password
through a sacred door of resistance that has existed as a barrier for
generations upon generations of women, like pretty will excuse
your crimes and absolve you of your sins. pretty, like it’s a holy word,
like saying pretty on repeat will drown out her ‘please stop’s.
i can’t think of what metaphor i’m supposed to feed her now.
her temple is in shambles. no gods will step within a foot of her.
she believes in no temples, in no gods. what am i supposed to
transform her body into so that the next time she catches a glimpse
of the dark bruises on her throat in the grimy reflection of a mirror
she won’t reach for a bottle of sleeping pills?
darling i swear that your body is a forest,
your body is a city, your body is an ocean,
your body is a militarized fort, your body is a tree house
with a ‘no boys allowed’ sign stapled to the front door.
and if you can ever believe in anything again, please
believe that your body is yours and i will spend the rest of
my life trying to make up for the one night it wasn’t.
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a girl i remember growing up with is crying in my bathroom
right now and i have to go and try to convince that
her life is still worth living. how can i look her in the face
and tell her that bodies are temples,
that her body is precious, that her gods are strong and holy and
they will do anything to protect her sacred flesh?
how can i possibly stomach anyone ever complimenting
her again when i’ve heard her whisper the words he told her,
in the dead of night, when we’re holding onto
each other in the middle of a hurricane. “he called me pretty,”
she says. pretty. like pretty is a password
through a sacred door of resistance that has existed as a barrier for
generations upon generations of women, like pretty will excuse
your crimes and absolve you of your sins. pretty, like it’s a holy word,
like saying pretty on repeat will drown out her ‘please stop’s.
i can’t think of what metaphor i’m supposed to feed her now.
her temple is in shambles. no gods will step within a foot of her.
she believes in no temples, in no gods. what am i supposed to
transform her body into so that the next time she catches a glimpse
of the dark bruises on her throat in the grimy reflection of a mirror
she won’t reach for a bottle of sleeping pills?
darling i swear that your body is a forest,
your body is a city, your body is an ocean,
your body is a militarized fort, your body is a tree house
with a ‘no boys allowed’ sign stapled to the front door.
and if you can ever believe in anything again, please
believe that your body is yours and i will spend the rest of
my life trying to make up for the one night it wasn’t.
Literature
denial and uglier aftermath
i drink to you, raising my glass and
choking down the things you left,
ignoring my gag reflex and waiting
on the buzzing in my head, white cotton
lullabies for the weak of heart.
it kills me that we are just a
collection of vignettes, that soon
i might see your blossom fingers
and bleeding sunset smile but
only as a memory gone static with neglect;
this summer, i became a rebel. a
martyr in a child’s game, a vagrant
with boxes of dead poetry to call
a home, and when i asked you to want me,
it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousness
with you when you left. i miss
the days when personality disorders
were not gra
Literature
pandemonium
do you know that feeling
the one where everything just sort of
stops and you're left
alone in front of the mirror and it's not
the same person you woke up to
but instead they're just this delicate
porcelain statue will shatter with
one touch into more pieces than there are
stars in the sky and the scorpions scuttling
up your throat keep stinging and burning with a
fire that you can't swallow back down into the
storm that's churning at the very bottom of your
stomach and the wolf in your chest is howling
and threatening to gnaw its way through your bones before
it suffocates beneath the desert stretched across
every inch of your skin and your
Literature
.
she'll hold him tight tonight
and dread the coming mo(u)rning
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thank you for reading this have a nice day i'm sorry the world's so shitty right now
© 2014 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
Comments21
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From one survivor to another... head up and march on. Time doesn’t fade the memories but learn to love the fight. It’ll bring meaning down the line