Not cancer within our bones,
But it’s a cancer of our homes.
It’s a “hierarchy” deemed “alright”
But it’s a battle – a true fight.

It’s a longing for control and
It’s a simple punch, fist, hand
Or not even that. It could be
Lashing words that ignore her plea.

He denies her to her loved ones
For that’s who would step up with guns
Of love, ropes of safety. “Keep quiet,”
She’s told, which is now her best bet.

It’s shame that keeps her in silence.
It’s love that frees her from *violence.

Lacking tangibility.
A sense associated with memory.
Scientifically proven to be attached to neurological stimulus.
But in its simpler form,
it reminds us of Sunday afternoons
and coffee stains.
It reminds us of the rain
and the sheets of your bed.
It can't be felt,
only recognized.
And like you,
it can soften in an inhale
and hurt in an exhale.

In existence she is victim,
By nature she is soft.
Tame, timid and tender, she is conditioned prey.
She is taught submission, a creation of fear.
She is comprised of silent "no's" and forced "yes's" and voices that are not her own.

In existence she is victim,
By nature she is ******.
She is tangible, thus targeted;
Woundable, wavering and weightless.
She is physical form: areas made for pleasure teach her pain.
She is degradation.
Her skin is easily soiled, her divinity is readily tainted, clean is stripped from her.

In existence she is victim.
By nature she is less.
She is sentient, sentimental and susceptible.
She is weak, for she is second.
Regarded as inferior, she is lacking, she is without caliber, she is separate.

In existence she is victim.
By nature she is bare.
She is blood-stained, benign and bereaved.
She is subject to violence; object of violence.
She is eternally marred.
She is born victim.
Nature has made her woman.

I'd like to know
the topography of your body;
every mountain range,
every valley.
I'd like to know you
with my eyes closed,
become familiar with every curve.
Use my fingertips to trace
mazes on your skin.
Use my lips to wander across places
undiscovered.

I wrote poetry for you.
Words in the form of small scribbles
and cursive letters.
Tender whispers and heavier sighs.
Only to learn,
that your words,
the poems you whispered,
were meant for someone else.