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.