Lee was over twice my age
When he brought me by my hand
Into his house, best described
As a two story trailer that
Permitted the perfume of a bloated corpse
To still haunt the air like burnt popcorn.

My whole mind was pulsing
As he led me into his bedroom.
I felt adrenaline painting my mind
With the static of dread and adventure
Stuffing the sound of my heartbeat
Like sirens driving away
                                                Waning
                                                                Waning
                                                                                Waning

He sat me down as if he were a waiter
And he’d be right back for my drink order.
I’d probably order ***** if I drank
But right now I need a soda for the sweetness.
I don’t remember him sitting down next to me
Because I was tunneling through the carpet with my eyes.
At some point I recognized the grunting on the TV
As the same purr of the demons in my closet.

I felt a hand grab my jeans roughly,
Like he wanted a fistful of popcorn with the movie,
And my pants shrunk around my hips with fear
As the hand began to scrub them,
As if it were possible to wash away
The last fortification of innocence left.

This is what a man does.
He finds his prey and kills it quick
And then meticulously takes the time to clean the corpse,
An irony coupled with the loving fondling of tiny organs.

He gripped my hand.
Not aggressive or forceful, but more akin to
Merlin leading Arthur’s to Excalibur’s golden hilt.
I expected to feel his denim as he felt mine
But I found the rubbery tingle of my nightmare.
The skin of my arm began to curl into itself
As if I had reached slowly into a cold shower
And I could not prevent the dreary progression into the ice.

This what a woman does.
She yields to his strength and calloused hands,
As she yields to let him inside her,
And yields to release his spawn into the world.

I didn’t know what to do anymore.
So he began to pull of my jeans,
Slowly at first, but he began jerking from frustration.

This is what a man does.
His missing father and Y-Chromosome
Compel him to lead:
The cows to the barn to be milked
And his bride into the dimly lit marriage bed.

I follow the melding flesh on the screen
As my hieroglyphic guides into the maze
And I find myself falling to my knees
Saying a silent prayer before being devoured.
I felt the water retreat into my eyes in an attempt
To obscure the last picture of my virility.

Because this what a woman does.
She bows at the altar of a ******* god,
Swallowing the last crumb of pride she has left
After he feet were bound again
                                                                And again
I don’t remember the rest.
And maybe that’s what a woman does,
That’s the only way she would follow him.
I remember him leaving to clean up.
I begged God to let me cry,
As the generations of women before me.
I hoped the tears would wash away the black tar
I could feel clinging to my once unstained skin.
If I could catch them in my hands
I would rinse my mouth out with melancholy.
And this is what a woman does.