I’ve studied the desiccation of your face my whole life.
The way it culminates in exasperation when I try to fight back.
The exodus of perished love, contaminated, sulphurous, the past
Reassembling itself. I try to find your overwrought women, blind
And lovelorn, as they pivot in a deadlock darkness, around the
Pretentious power of your sex, the endlessly regurgitated palaver
Stemming from your irremediable lungs, your voice, the orchestra
Of deceit and corrupted regalia, stolen glances, plotting hands.
I reimagine your histrionic features and sounds, how they enraged me,
Everything they manoeuvred into extinction, my lips in-between your
Fingers, my words swallowed by the muscles in your mouth and throat.
Your pseudo-parochial worldview weaved itself into my female body,
Burdening me with scriptures of restriction, confinement, passivity and
Condemnation still. Colours had no presence in your thoughts, your system.
I worked tirelessly to let your lessons and monologues percolate through my body,
To eventually weed you out.