by Wendy Geal
The center of me is no more.
You've stolen it, ruptured it
What a pleasure, to thieve and murder
and leave me here
to lie pleasantly underneath you.
I will scream, scream your name
and you'll never know the
ire, still bleeding from those same
tattered edges, a once immaculate soul
These are my hands, I will make you feel them someday.
I will trace them along your curves, ripping seams
out from apathetic flesh
I will use up every man &
sew him up like a quilt with your eyes,
your hair, your intimate smile, familiar
I will invent you up & destroy you
I will steal the flower of me from your idle garden
where you've kept it like a trophy to flatter our bondage.
Author's Note: I was reading "The Taboo of Virginty" the other day and
wrote this as sort of an exaggeration from one of the women in his essay.
Posted on 08/31/2004
Copyright © 2020 Wendy Geal