Girlmouth / Fathertwig / Daughterporcelain | A Poem

I hear that you don’t like the words coming out of my mouth.

The sounds a child makes that belongs to you.

You own. You don’t borrow. You take and possess.

Your body turned into a straitjacket.

Torment in the rhythm of neglect.

Combustion in the form of projection.

Hands on me, hands on yourself.

Self-loathing straight onto my body.

My hair in your limelight.

My eyes in your prison cell.

My resentment gasoline under your roof, my roof.

Cut into one another.

You strained the boundaries of my body.

Erected an altar to yourself in my head.

And I lost sight of my hands, my thighs, my heart.

Lost touch, gained yours, his, violence, poisoned sentences.

Absence and presence deformed into one and the same thing.

Past and present. You held me. Vigil.

An avid candle swooshing too close to the strands of my hair.

Dyed, volatile, cover-up, close-up, away from you, colour first.

I swallowed your images.

The never-ending narratives you preach past midnight.

Starlight, flight of stairs, slippers, stomping, memory mine.

Aggravated heartbeat, child, body, man, lifetime horrors

Glued to the underground matter of your skin.

Coming at me, full throttle, energy afire, ever-developing balloons,

Squeezing, tighter, anticipation, hide-and-seek, find-me-not.

Photo by Agnese Lunecka 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