Saturday, April 20, 2013

Stockholm Syndrome.

Her door knockers
coincide with the rapping of knuckles against the entrance of her future

Jeremy arises,
in both senses of the word

waiting to part her seas, in apartment B

Hey Jeremy,

I was nine when my mother sold me, for her addiction,
been latched to you ever since

encrusted with semen, my lips touched ice cream for the first time,
reward for being a good girl

thank you, for showing me that my thighs could bring more than piss

we ate well
when rich gentleman came looking for youth

you didn't like when the boys started to notice me,
did you?

thought my DD breasts were too swollen,
for my own good,
tried to beat them back into me

I loved you like November,
when tricks were low,
because men promised their wives they'd
be home for dinner,
their children, for construction paper palm turkeys

we were good then,

smoking our troubles in,
hailing our high on that dirty mattress, on the floor

burgundy stains from miscarriage three and four

when can i have your child?
you're the only family I got
why can't we multiply?

you laughed, when I said this
told me, "Them neighborhood boys gon' knock you up, soon enough."

I could hear you crooning inside other woman,
from the other room,
orgasming your pimp name


I won't call you anything else
I need you to remember who you once were

Preacher's son
a firm grasp
the first in class

You are no one's molestation
behind the pulpit
you are no faux hallelujah

when we are so messed up
so gone that we forget who we are
we are good to each other
and you say stupid things like,
"I love you"
"I wasn't always this way"

These are the words I remember,
when you  are pillaging through me,
like I stole something from you

Raw and ripped

Leaving me stumbling
through this desert we call home
to buy your cigarettes

"five dollars"
papi says
and as I rub my legs together,
blotting the blood that drips there

I remember, I was once only worth that...

But now I've got you.

1 comment:

Vera George said...

Wow, this was intense!!