His eyes are like black beetles rolled onto their backs, thick legs like lashes flickering in the movement it requires to take me in;
And I am exposed- again- to the disease they spread from living underneath the foundations of so many homes, not unknown, exactly, but pardoned as 'harmless’ and left
to live in the crawl spaces, where his real eyes roll between the cobwebs.
Therein the innocence of beauty, with all her God given curves, is curled up inside the belly of that glutton, and the stomach acid does the devil’s work in decomposing her;
We all have bruises on our necks, blooming in lavender colored thumbprints where he turned our faces forcibly away from him;
There is nothing so damning as a woman who has made eye contact with those insects,
Bite
Your
Tongue
Girl,
This is not about you.
This is about the ‘stumbling block’ you became to him,
This is about the disastrous eventuality of outliving your usefulness.
This is about the godforsaken body you were given to spite and entice him with,
And your ability to keep it carefully hidden.
We will not bite our tongues.
We are not the amalgamation of soft feminine lines, rent into the shapes you like them best,
Or the shapes you hate,
Or the constantly transforming flame of your carnality, with it's cruel hands around your throat.
We are not our bodies;
But they are ours.
We are not our bodies,
And we will not be easily devoured.