"He puts his hand on my thigh
and I fade into vacant stares and
itchy flesh. Baby he says, why not be a little softer? You’re all sharp edges and rotten wood.
You’ll be burnt up in no time
if you don’t cool down a little.
Why you gotta be so angry?
I tell him I would drink lighter fluid
if it meant there was nothing left
of me for him to touch.
He becomes fists slammed on tables,
a knife to my throat. I scream
BABY SOFTEN YOUR EDGES.
WHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY?
He says ‘you’re just like all the rest, someone needs
to put you in your place.’ I am told
women are not made for what
I am fighting for. We are made
That night my mother strokes my hair
and kisses my bruises
and tells me that I am brave,
to keep being brave. Breathe. Smile. Distract.
I go back to him, he holds me in his arms
and tells me he forgives me.
When he falls asleep I scrawl words
in blood on his walls.
“I AM SICK TO DEATH OF BEING BRAVE.”" - I AM NOT A DISTRACTION || M.P.T (via harmonette)