What’s the matter with that child?
Put your hands on me, put your words on me.
Layer after layer, lie after lie, embodying love
In all its failures and shortcomings.
It wasn’t love, was it? It wasn’t you, was it?
Nobody’s fault, nobody’s responsibility,
What’s wrong with that child?
Your lips on my cheeks, the violence in your throat.
Stubs on your face irritating my skin.
Little bitch, little bitch, behave, don’t be such a tease,
Just a little bit, just all the way, just this, just that,
I like this, I like that, come on now, what is it going to be?
Can’t you tell, can’t you tell at all?
Sitting on laps, I embody an insult.
I am my father’s disappointment personified.
His eyes follow me when I am falling apart.
He appears then and there.
Attention seeks its selected moments.
That’s when he tries to see.
That’s when he chisels and threatens and pokes and rages.
I am my father’s rebuckled belt.
I have no use for it.
Who told you to undress, to derail, to escalate, to spit fire in my face?
Eat, go on, eat, shove it all in, in it goes, fill yourself up,
Is it enough yet, you want more, and more, and I pay and pay for it.
Do you know what boys would do to you?
Can you imagine?
You taught me everything I wished to forget.
I listened and bathed in the misery you put on me like garments.
I teach myself to disregard the good.
I teach myself to disregard the bad.
You’d still say the same things.
You’d still scream and curse the world.
You’d still not see the point in me.
You’d still perform and pretend to love.
Maybe there is some truth in you,
I wish that I could find it.
Croque-Melpomene 