Down Your Throat My Language Goes | A Poem | Rub Your Face In It

I tried finding


In the body

Called father,

I tried finding



In your body


The act of

Your body

And mine

Against mine.

All bodies fatherly

Rubbing against mine,

Into corners,

Into survival mode,

Screaming matches,

Running away from each other’s minds.

You buried your past

And fought with your dead.

They lived in our house.

They told me what to do.

You shoved your voice down my throat.

On my knees.

And I ran,

Ran away in my mind,

Standing still, talking to shadows,

Holding on,

The key in my door.

Your mouth at the keyhole.

Whispers, on your knees,

I’ve always had enough,

Of you,

The sound of you,

The violence,

The stampede of dialect,

The absence of language,

Love abused, love overused, love inexistent,

You needed and needed and drank and got drunk

With me on all fours, gagging, holding myself together

To not shatter

Under your weight.

You broke and built

According to the sick world in your head.

I didn’t correspond.

I blew myself up

And apart,

It has never been me.

Not in your arms,




The animal within,

The dead within,

The ghosts singing songs

that I have never heard,

Never known,

The words in my bones,

The fork in your hand,

The blade across my skin,

Count your sins,

Embody yourself,

I’ve crawled out of the confessional box

With my hands clean,

Of you and what you thought of me

Since you created me.

“Sitzendes Mädchen mit Pferdeschwanz” by Egon Schiele (1890-1918)

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