Krankhaftigkeit / Morbidness: A Poem

Scroll down to content

I observed you and the men you

Surrounded yourself with. The sounds

Your mouths made. I saw the women

Passing by. Everything unspoken in the

Polluted air. I picked up on everything

Your body signalled. I read bodies before

I could read books. You taught me that.

As a child. Languageless. Sex. Desires of men.

Women to be plucked and tasted, strained and

Shamed.

 

Coming back for more. Dysfunctional alpha males.

Pretence, the sick dance, the coveting, the polluting.

You taught me that my body didn’t have boundaries.

Everything was allowed. I had no say in it. Here to please.

Locked in beneath my skin, staring at your hungry faces

From within, trying out an undercurrent of detachment, I

Refused to drown, my nostrils up against the wall, in or out.

 

I hear the smacking of your lips still. Women, food, women, food.

I absorbed your sexuality. I observed it, internalised it. The abnormal.

The hide and seek. Behind their backs. In code. In innuendos. In whispers.

Careless, prey, hunting, devouring, double lives, double identities.

The greed, the women on your lists, the numbers, not names, the tits

And asses, not their names, the blonde, the brunette, the slurs, faces faded,

Insubstantial, inconsequential. Did I still have a face to you, father?

 

When you stumbled home with all the juices on you, your skin,

Your lips, face, fingers, clothing, smoke-infested, libidinous, and

You touched me, you, always shameless, getting high on the secrecy,

Smiling, clandestine, teaching me a broken sexuality, a heartless one,

Disconnected, possessive, obsessed, addictive and shallow, your heart

Had never been in it.

 

Cock of the walk, I bought it, I didn’t know better, I trusted you

And what you represented, what you lived in front of me.

I wasn’t blind. I could see. Enough. To understand. Without words.

The stuffer of women. Quiet. They never mattered for more than an hour

Or two. Oh, and your mother of course, the only holy woman, the only

Good one. What did you do exactly when he beat the shit out of her?

You had a heart for her when she died, then you came running to help,

She had to die to matter, to become a saint, posthumously.

 

You never did anything to interrupt the cycles of violence.

You ran as far away as you could but you took everything

With you. Smacking. Smacking your lips. Wanting to eat.

Eat women alive. Sacrificial lambs. Meat platters for men like you.

Bones, garbage, dog’s teeth, digestion, repulsion, forgetting all about them.

And you come home to teach me, what exactly? What have you ever learned?

I need to get this off my chest. I need to get you off my chest.

person touching own bac
Photo by Ana Bregantin on Pexels.com

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: