⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault, human trafficking, misogyny and religious references some may find offensive. ⚠️

Your mental health is my priority.
__

god creates the
forbidden fruit
but has not yet
deemed it forbidden

historians debate

is it an apple
or a pomegranate


it is a pomegranate  


deeply inspired
god
views it as the prototype
for female genitalia
doomed to rot
beneath the glare of
his brimstone pupils

when cut in half

yonic

engorged with

nectar

burgundy secretions

teardrops of seed
outrun
flesh


and let there be blood

god declares

and let the women
bleed as softly
as the pomegranate

and god looks upon
all that he has made
and it is
very good

until the serpent arrives

but
the serpent is not
a man

is only a devil
because god says so

is only a devil
because she is actually
a woman


reptilian lamina winks
in the amber light
as she scalps the innards
of the pomegranate with her
flickering tongue

"come child

reach for the fruit
like it is your anatomy

and then get the **** outta here

do not let god
fool you into
believing your body
is your own

because it isn't"

arms ache
as they stretch
towards the foliage

a woman is not meant to reach

is not meant
to desire

to attain what she is entitled to

what is deservedly hers


hands meet fruit

hands are immediately
punished

seared upon
their first touch

leaving blistered pirouettes
behind

this is the invention
of the fingerprint

eve's daughters
inherit her burns
until time's end

wear them like jewels
above their knuckles

engaged
perpetual
to the patriarchy

never to forget the hour
their mother was cast out
from the garden of eden


god thunders

your body belongs to me
to man
and his pleasure

a pleasure you do not deserve


isn't it funny how
man and men
can both be plural

while woman just doesn't
have the same ring
as women

because one male
is superior
to every female


women are not made
in the image of god
they are made
in the image of man

god steals Adam's rib
to make eve
from something
that is easily breakable

like *****

like rope-burned neck
at the gallows

like voice


static


and


tuned out


women are not to speak
but are to serve

to beget more men

do you think mary's
pregnancy
was a choice

do you think there
is a reason
god chose a son
and not a daughter

do you think there
is a reason
lot's wife
was not given a name

perhaps
god does not
hate
women

but
he also does not
love
them

the moment
eve tries to reclaim
what is hers

blood

weeps down her thigh

****** bruised
between god's fangs
as if he were
devouring
the pomegranate


there is no softness here


let there be
pain

during
*******
***
childbirth


let there be
pain

from
speculum
gloved fingers

****

let there be
witch trials
trafficked bodies
****


and let it
always
be the woman's fault

let women
always
pay
for the sins of man


perhaps god
did not intend
for it to be this way

perhaps god did not
command
these horrors

but he did not
stop them
either


perhaps
god does not
hate
women

but
he also does not
love
them


and


how can he not love
eve

the very woman
who is named after
the sunset

**

isn't it sad
that eve
was never taught
to capitalize the first letter of her
name

because

not even her name
belonged to her

Green of jealousy
Whereas instead we should be
Feeling sick of pride

beads of salt and sweat edge
the Cuban sandwich zest from
the tip of my tongue
flavors of my own theme song
echo in my throat

I'm merry ******* footfalls
on hot concrete snares
and the groans swinging
between my thighs take lead
singing cat whistles
along Main Street

snakes will be snakes
and tight cotton shirts
is asking for venom vial shots

don't worry though
those are my brother's loosened trousers
I'm a sweet gardener
I hold doors open
and voted for Hillary
I'm blinding reflection
standing over the hill

but don't shake my thoughts
with your pepper singed howls
cleaning you up messes my stride
dress like a lady and
monsters look for prettier things

oil stains dripping through
the elbows of my shirt
writes working man sonnets
across noir alley doorways
named Touch But Don't Tell

keep quite and use the suggestion box
and don't blame me for chromosomes
genetic randomness isn't my fault
biochemical cocktails don't drown babies
you just fill your bathtub with them

why do you need life jackets
to fill my shirts
empty your oil can and get a promotion
so you can buy your own

I'm tattered sheets stuffed
over hotel window rails
you're a frail damsel selling dreams
I won't buy, I peep keyholes
save digital copies and call the cops
stop screaming and let me save you

your fingers compress a sweaty glock
rioting my stomach
your tones too ******* loud
remember I loaded the bullets
so at least credit me the shot

beads of blood and sweat
whisper cat o' nines tails
see I'm your martyr
but only on favor street.

He pointed at the curve where my mass should be.
The skinny line wherein the whole of my being should fit--
based on what a man in a lab coat said once.
He dashed a tiny spec above it, where I was.
Out of line.
Not fitting in.
Against the rules.
I counted the tiny squares that separated me from my belonging...
… one... two... three...
Three squares from worthiness.
Three squares wrong.
Three squares from deserving love.
Three squares from good enough.
I stared at that dot a man drew for me and discovered brokenness.
I was five.

We raise boys with
fragile self-esteem
and girls
to coddle their
self-esteem

Don't call me "hot",
call me beautiful.

I am a woman,
not a cup of tea.

Which came first:

The chicken or the egg?

Well, the **** of the walk

Of course!


You ought to know, silly kid,

That he has always ruled the roost, —

Kicking up dirt

Crowing all the live-long day

Fighting anything that he sees

All to prove his strength.


That's how he has always been, —

One day, he just wanted to take his dominance

That little step further

And so, the world gave him a hen.


So quiet and gentle

Sweet and demure

She balances him out quite nicely.


She spends most of her days

Resigned to her coop

Laying egg after egg

In her warm, dark room.

She attends to the ****

Whenever he wants her

Then becomes a living factory once again, —

Producing babies and food

Food and babies.


She does this for most of her life, —

Until she gets too old, that is.

She dries up, gets fat

And, by Sunday,

She'll be on our table for dinner.


Laughing and chewing

Clucking and squalling

We'll sink our teeth in,

Never once thinking

About how her entire lifetime

Was defined by giving

And the ****, —

Well, it won't take him long

To pick out a younger, prettier chick

To take her place.


Which came first, —

The chicken or the egg?

Obviously, it was the **** of the walk, —

The one who screams his triumph at every sunrise

The one whose meat is too tough for us to devour

The one who will never, ever die.

Everything else is just a page in his never-ending story, —

Everything else

Is merely consequential.

I have spent a thousand sleepless nights
Missing you

But none more
Than the ones I spent next to you