I want her face to harden into a mask,
one I can slip over my own face before you look at me,
to prove to her and myself that you don't really see us.
None of it matters to you.
We're both just thighs wrapped around your waist,
raspy voices assuring you that only you can do what you're doing,
only you can reach inside of us and plant the seeds
that could grow to become a world in which we are more than just women.
More than empty vessels whispering "deeper, harder, more."
Life gave me a hollow at my center, made my body weep tears of blood,
and then it gave me you, and you swore that you loved me,
and that in that love I would find a purpose,
but if this is what I was made for, I want to disassemble myself,
hide the pieces somewhere not even you can find them.
What do you tell her, when she asks if you're going to hurt her?
Do you explain that it is inevitable?
That like all imperfect gods, you will damn
your worshipers to disappointment, simply by being yourself?
I'm not going to prostrate myself at your feet, anymore.
You were only ever just a man.
You came from nothing, the same as me, the same as her.
We'll be nothing when you're through with us,
not because you made us that way,
but because you were never powerful enough to make us anything else,
no matter how much we wanted to believe.

04/25/2016

Posted on 04/25/2016
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