This is piece is also inspired by Amir Sulaiman’s song called “How Beautiful”…I wrote this piece while listening
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Most women have alter egos
many women are raped.
But not just in the way that you think:
Their minds wreak of holy contamination,
leaks out poison regenerating instead of cell replenishing.
She is open from mopin’ inside from cuts of replies of empty promises and misconceptions and lies.
Open: in the most sensitive space in her deepest place of existence which is her loving faith,
that’s draped in the form of a glass heart shape,
as she is into pieces from being carved out—
She’s been dug out, became heartless
like her shadow became topless like her battle of armor, she is without helmet—she is headless,
no protection, no mental reference to stability,
just her physical connection to humility as her legs spread wide
open for the species, pretending to be a “gentle” men but to them she’s just another alien
and to her, they’re just aliens, entering her vagina,
spreading in, trying to tear her down like the walls of China,
trying to enslave her like false doctrine of a religious binder.
but he, him, they don’t mind her…
They spit lies like hurricanes on their lips that leap out splits, wet and slippery,
manipulating to misery as these lizard-like and slashing tongues
wreak words so bleak, she’s become their black sheep lost in the wilderness,
guided by the fire, not seeing, not believing,
barely breathing, no thinking, she’s sinking,
and they’re grinding her better than black pepper,
she’s succumbing to the bummin’-off-her,
cheap shots of deception on rocks of office sex
hotel complex, bathroom genres and car rumblin.
she let’s them write in permanent marker,
“We’re not going to stock you, we just want to clog you”,
passed the point of no-drainer rescue,
hoping you will pop a vessel of strength, become limp
like a doll to a pimp
—and they’ll even say, “it’s natural like hemp”
hell–and THIS she sleeps off, trying with bleach to remove this scar
THIS she tries to sleep off but car rumbling got her stumbling down imaginary stairs
the ones she tried to climb up to her Moon in a wheelchair
And THIS she tries to sleep off
like the Moon singing so soft
and when she wakes up
she’s no longer headless
she’s a mistress dressed as an empress
she’s a slave dressed as…
a school teacher
sometimes a preacher.
and she slips on her garments,
preparing for her compartments of the day:
love, hate, insecurity and rejection on her plate.
but the biggest of them all: Perseverance.
with a gold chain around it’s neck beckoning and pleading
but pushing for the win
and at the end of the day…she goes back into being a doll that plays—just another headless empress.
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