Women tell me their stories.
things that ring like a bell;
an alarm bell, a warning.

What happened to me isn’t unique, I found
yet still. It is mine.

Lips, thighs, softness
hair, mouth, coarseness
*******. brains, burnt out

I can hear the blood pounding in my ears
as he goes down on me.
Down where I wither and die

These men are not monsters,
yet they loom with the rope of a hangman,
black hoods, black boots and hands
That throttle our throats, bringing death with them

They do not know that this is a relief
for our tongues to swell in mouths until we can no longer
breathe

We marry them, sometimes
thinking they won’t turn on us
that they will keep us warm and safe

We go to their beds, willingly
at first,but later we are forced
down onto the rough carpet,
where our thighs smart from the fabric,
the friction

Mostly, though
we hurry past them in the street
clutching our keys between our fingers
as they lurk in dark corners

But we cannot escape them
these men with the power to end our lives.

I talk to these women and find their stories stirring in me
each word filling me with courage
Yet we know, we all know, that sharing words is not enough
to stop these predators,
these sharks that hunger for our flesh and blood

we can only re-pin our dresses, make up our faces
and face them