Women - made to your pleasure.
They’ll stretch, strain, shrink to your desire-
A size smaller, sir? Why yes, of course.
Hate, hate, hate until that is all there is,
But you must smile, sweetheart
Because good girls don’t bite.
We scream, shriek, shake,
scratching from
within
But never tear open the skin which
binds us.
Girls, grown in poisoned soils,
fed lies laced with promise-
of beauty.
Fertilised in the rolling rumours
That one day they will be plucked,
ripe and ready to bloom.
Blossoming, we and they and she
twist and turn, seeking to bask in the light
Of His smile’s golden rays
and overpower the rotting perfume
of fallen petals.
What they don’t tell you, girls
Is that once harvested,
blossoms will wilt
leaves will dry
ripe fruit will rot.
And all that is left
is the stench of your own flailing,
peeling skin
And the echo of a dream,
a petal drowning in the stream.
In the stream, she stares -
longingly, lustfully, lovingly,
But as the profile forms, her features break
and away with the current goes
her eyes, her lips, her nose.
Until all that is left is the rippling current
and the memory of the girl who was,
And the heaving breathes of the girl who is,
bent over the stream
and howling to the moon.
No longer exists
the face of the past
But her memory will haunt
you forever -
to the alter, and to the coffin.
25/10/23
May 31, 2024
May 31, 2024 at 1:20 PM UTC