He taught her that there was only one kind of love and that it

Could only be found with his hands in-between her thighs.

With her face against the bulge in his pants before she could

Read and write. When she found the right words, everybody

Wondered what was wrong with her, why she acted out.

 

They thought she needed to be straightened out, guided

Back on the right path. They were convinced that she was

The reason why she  behaved the way she did. Never trying

To find out about the feeling in her sex, the artefact of desire.

How her body got used to belonging to someone else, not herself.

 

She had to be ready for his call. He taught her that she had no language.

That her life was perfect. That he made sure of it. What they created

Together. Whispering into her pores at night when she was asleep, yet

Never secure. He throttled her autonomy and shoved it in a bag.

 

Looking at her when she felt free for an instant, thinking

That this feeling is his to claim, her body his to possess.

He legitimised his crimes against her with his understanding

Of love that he felt for her.

A compensation for everything that had crumbled to pieces in his life.

grayscale photography of woman s face
Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

 

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