Sorry Not Sorry

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He said he was sorry…

But…

his victim had no one to protect her.

But…

She was in the wrong place.

But…

He has a right to not be known.

But…

Just look at his angel face.

But…

The record shows he is troubled.

But…

Be mindful of his future.

But…

Boys will be boys.

But…

He was angry.

 

He said he was sorry,

But after all,

It was her fault.

 

And so it came to pass,

That magistrate duly did demand,

That I should say…

 

I’m sorry…

About his knee caps.

That it took 10 swings of a cricket bat,

Before I heard them crack.

 

I’m sorry…

About his fingers,

That bones shatter,

When stepped on by a full-grown mother.

 

I’m sorry…

About his lip,

About the way it split, 

That blood doesn’t wash out of cotton so easy.

 

I’m sorry…

About his stomach,

That the knife,

Was dull and rusty.

 

I’m sorry…

It got twisted,

But he laughed when punctured.

And the red on my hands,

Matched the red that clouded my vision.

 

I’m sorry…

But I was angry.

I’m sorry,

But he wasn’t sorry.

 

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Renewed

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She slid the ring off her finger,

She rubbed at the flesh beneath,

Hoping no one would notice the sun-starved skin.

Much the way her spirit stood staved of passion.

 

She slid the ring into her purse with

She hoped with it the last vestige of her guilt.

Her guilt for being neglected

Her guild for being left behind

Or perhaps at moving too far forward

 

She moved among the heaving bodies,

Embraced the spirit that mused the motion

She gyrated and ground her hip against the engorged flesh of a man 12 yes her junior

 

She gave in to the dancehall rhythm,

Let herself lose,

Against this boy and that.

She let her hair down for the first time in 10 years of marriage.

 

The guilt kept creeping,

She firmly dismissed it.

He knew there was a lack of intimate between them.

He knew and he kept choosing disinterest

Or other interests

Or interests in others

 

He himself had told a tale of two lovers,

Come roommates,

Comes strangers.

He told her with a finality that spoke more volumes than the tale itself.

 

But this boy,

Here in the darkness,

This grinding of veiled flesh,

His hot breath on the nape of her neck,

These hungry hands seeking passage into her veiled places

Was the affirmation of a desirability she had doubted for far too long,

She reveled in it.

 

She celebrated,

As guilt gave way to a wave of lustful abandon,

As hot lips touched her neck, her collar bone, her jaw line

As she surrendered her lips

As she wrapped her leg around his hip and let the grinding become something almost sex

 

She renewed her belief in her goddess self,

Leaving the club with this boy,

Into the room she had rented

Into the act of flesh rending

Flesh left untouched too long

 

She reveled,

Through the night,

And in the morning,

She left the sleeping form of a drunken stranger

She went home, renewed, to face her demon.


On the subject of Adult Womaning

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Disclaimer: I’m not quite sure if this is a poem or a rant. It is all an honest response to a friend’s asking about the experience of adulting and womanhood. I’m not even sure it’s finished but it’s been nagging to be set free so here I go. I may alter it later, or give it a part two but for now…

It’s like nats buzz, buzz, buzzing behind my eye ’cause…

The Bills and the rent and the tides and the gas,
All come due at the same time,
Taxes get bigger and salaries get smaller,
And APUA remains the same,
Water been off so long my laundry has evolved to a state of sentience,
And home-cooked meals have become but a memory,
Which remind me,
What can I cook that doesn’t have green things or crunchy thing,
Or isn’t too sweet, salty, yellow, greasy, fibrous or inflicts the need to chew!!
And two of my tires just blew,
because road works in progress can last a decade!

It’s like a thousand biting insects, squirming and biting and writhing on my skin ’cause…

MOM!!! I need…
Popsicle sticks, wood glue, Manila, toiletries for the homeless,
Pictures of farm animals, types of families, technology, types of transport,
A little red paper scissors from the store over yonder,
Six pounds of candy and the blood of a virgin cow,
born on the 1st of May when Saturn is in retrograde,
and the north wind smells sweet with the blossoms of snow on the mountain,
and the tide is highest at midnight and a lonely mermaid sings a perfect note.
And this Kid is in Kindergarten!!!
The others need Uranium mined from the dark side of the moon
when it faces the earth and Halie’s comet is in orbit.
All screamed impatiently thought the bathroom door,
when all I want to do is pee ALONE!!!!

It’s like some kind of Viscus liquid bubbling, popping and belching where thoughts should be ’cause…

Staffrooms are never quiet,
Kids are never compliant,
and 130 X 4 assignments don’t seem to mark themselves,
much less in time for deadlines for pedagogues set by an admin that sets the workload.
But low IQ is in fashion,
far too many parents are absent or terribly inadequate,
and rape and abuse are acceptable,
if the victim is a child of any kind,
When bruises only get seen by a few,
and these ones only ever want to talk to Teacher.
But Claireview doesn’t take voluntary residents,
and it’s never 5 o’clock when it needs to be,
and nobody takes me seriously,
when I say, Vodka dispensers need to be mandatory in my workplace!!!

It’s Like 4pm traffic with that asshole bus man that doesn’t know what an indicator does and parks to drop off and pick up on the one piece of road that doesn’t have potholes. ‘Cause…

…At the end of the day when you finally reach your sanctum,
You would really like a likkle wink up,
to make you feel like a woman again,
But half dead with exhaustion isn’t appealing, so…
Maybe you should dress up in Butt floss and hooker heels,
and put on one of those contraptions that makes boobs look appealing,
Though why is this needed? When for him droopy boxer drawers will suffice?

When these cool sheets feel too nice for a woman to go anywhere but down…into sleep.

 

 

 

 


Love Letter

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Dear you,

I still love you.

In this push and pull,
The conflict that is us,
In me trying to conquer you,
You coming to terms with us,
And me and you against them. I still love you.

It’s not perfect,
By no means is it always that beautiful thing that,
Pulled your headphones off and made me write those words that time,
It’s not new anymore,
It doesn’t sparkle anymore like it did that first time I dared claim your lips.
But I still find me feeling that high every once in a while because I still love you.

Sometimes we forget,
To be that girl and that boy touching nothing but our hands,
Saying nothing but what is passed between two sets of eyes locked.
We forget to be that kind of intimate,
Or maybe we just can’t find the time after the world has made us battle weary.
But I sometimes feel that kind of warm because,
You still remember to lay your head on my breast and just listen to my heart,
Or cradle me without saying words to ignite my tempest.
You still love me.

It can be a dangerous thing,
You and me and all of where we’ve been,
Allies and adversaries, do you remember?
All that anger and hate and passion and longing,
And occasionally old memories hurt more than new cuts,
Baby, I hated to hate you and I still do, because I love you.
And you take it, my angry, hateful, hurtful me,
Sometimes even when undeserving.
You let my demons ravage you and you soothe me back to something kinda human.
You still love me through my shit.

I still love you,
And we are still together,
Despite using words like switchblades,
And forgetting to give each other accolades,
And not knowing when us is me and you and none of them at all,
Despite getting caught up in who we want to be for them,
And losing who we should be for us.
I still love you.

Still, love the way you love me.

Still, love how we love.

 

 

 

 


BROKEN

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Whole feels like a memory,
Dipped in molasses.
Bitter-sweet and ungraspable with the tenuous hold of hindsight.

Something missed,
Wondered at,
Reflected upon,

Forgotten.

Are we damaged because we are broken?
Did we break because we were already damaged?
Was it some deep fault shaped as we were molded?

Could it have gone any other way?

Can it still?

Would we want it to?

How many more cracks can be filled with golden mortar?
Before that which we become,
Is no longer akin in nature to that what we were.

Whole,
A bittersweet memory, Dipped in molasses,
Ungraspable by the tenuous hold of hindsight.


Missing you

Old nights,

Long nights,

Hot nights,

Slow nights with no laughter.

Missing those,

Long meandering talks,

Those hands over mine,

Those moments.

On those long days,

Heavy on the spirit days,

Those I wish it would all be over days,

Missing those,

Arms around my shoulders,

Your strength against my back.

That silent compassion,

That warmth without patronage.

On those cool evenings,

Lazy sunsets,

Those magenta golden murels painted on the western sky.

Missing those warm eyes,

Those brilliant smiles,

The laughter.

I miss you.


Bee and Me

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She was sitting on my back step,

At first we went our way in mutual ignorance,

I guess she was too tied up in thought to notice me,

I imagine she, like every other working woman,

had enough on her plate.

I stepped light, unlike me her sting is serious.

She turned and regarded me,

I froze,

She flew away and I went my way,

I wonder if she ponders me,

like I am pondering the bee on my back step.

 


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