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.

woman standing near flowering plants
Photo by Амирова Агия on Pexels.com

 

 

 

 

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