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taking the words
I’m taking the words,
And saving them from your language.
I’m telling myself the bruises
Left with the man who bore them;
And I’m letting the crying die away,
Even if it is pleading now.
I’m taking my clothes off,
In front of straightforward-irony,
Promising myself it won’t rape me this time.
I am not sure if her legs were open for me,
But I know she was waiting for me to say something.
The gentle man who was cursed before he even died,
Because he had already become dead to so many.
The man with a hole in his throat, wheezing a defense,
Because those with better health wanted to redefine justice.
The little brother who couldn’t be welcomed,
Because he allowed the little to define him.
The mother who bangs herself, and moans,
Not for pleasure,
But for the pleasure of those who might have pleasured her,
Her orgasm would be them crying.
And the little old woman walks over to me,
With her jagged hands,
And baby brain,
With her gray hair,
And adolescent defiance,
With her realistic obesity,
And the tragic imagination,
Which has allowed her to survive,
If or if not survival,
Would be the choice of an adult brain.
I see them hugging out of the desperation,
Optimism promises will be closeness.
And I know they are wondering,
If fucking would mean,
They are closer or not.
And the man with his sins pleads with the rot,
Which should have forgave him,
Before it was ever born.
They are his sins now,
Regardless of if sins could ever be born.
I’m taking the words,
And saving them from your language.
I’m telling myself the bruises
Left with the man who bore them;
And I’m letting the crying die away,
Even if it is pleading now.
