They never mentioned
That the smell of aftershave
And toothpaste
Would be triggering.

Forgot to say I was destined
To be what twisted men crave -
My skinny waist,
His slithering.

Cannot sleep on a waterbed.
Fear that the waves will move
Unsteadily,
Irregularly.

Threw away purple bedspread.
Prayed its absence would improve
Sleeping,
Dreaming

I recognize his twins
At work, the store, and on the street.
Unable to breathe.
Petrifying.

Their crooked grins
Calloused hands, tight grips, yellow teeth
Calls me 'sweetie'
Triggering.

The ground looks so
     Appetizing
     From up this high
         I wanna find out if I can ******* fly

I wanna feel something before I hit the
      Bottom
                     I would love to relish in your blood-soaked nirvana

      I made you as comfortable as possible while you slit my throat
          I may be dead but my
   Wings are sewn with a different thread of gristle and bone

    If redemption is real and I have time to ****,
      I wonder how the fall will

         *Feel

he had a dream
where she slept in his lungs,
cleared the air and breathed his blood.

he made a universe
of stars made of her
they had her name and they breathed life.

he loved her
because he thought it meant
loving himself
but he should've known that
two explosions, when finished,
eventually result
in darkness.

he thought the universe was heavy,
yet he carried her to bed every night
for a week and a half
while she battled her tears
over “what if?”
and he would put her to sleep
with gentle cradling and soft whispering
because he knew stars needed to sleep too.

he made flowers grow
in her body,
he let their stems wrap tightly
around her ribs and hold her together,
and he was scared of the darkness,
but he'd come to love the eerie glow
of the moonlight.
his fingers were drowned
in the outpouring of her agony,
and they were fixed to her cheeks
like constellations in the sky.
the person she used to be
was now a faint ghost,
etched into his memory,
but it was how he kept her alive.

the things he thought about most
were the things he talked about least
often times,
the sounds of their children's laughter
stained the fibres of his mind,
but he couldn't recall those sounds,
for they had been replaced
by his wife's shaky breaths
and painful cries.

he had a dream
where she slept in his lungs.
perhaps that was where she should be,
for maybe life can begin to grow again
and wrap tightly around her ribs
and possibly, maybe, hopefully,
hold her together.

he wished the flowers good luck,
because even gravity
couldn't bind the universe.

did you know
that no means no?

what does it mean?
it means no.
no.
no.
no.
no.
no should not be the last thing
you scream and cry in pain
as your body is manipulated
by somebody of your kind
that is supposed to be your equal.

no means no.
it should not be followed by
if's or but's or why's.
but,
it is.
because no is not enough.

no means no.
it is not any less loud
because it appeals
under the tinge of toxicity
or painkillers.
no is coming from a human.

no means no.
no.
no.
no.
no.
no is not a joking matter,
it is not the background vocals
for your hymn of menacing laughter
and aggressive fits.

no means no.
it means denying consent,
it means this isn't okay,
it means i do not like this,
it means please stop.

no means no,
no.
no.
no.
no.
no more aggression towards people
you ache for power over.
no more trying to fulfil your sad fantasies
of distress and desolation.

did you know
that no means no?
or couldn't you hear us
over the sound of your innocent victim
screaming,
                “no” ?

I have been told plenty of times
by plenty of guys
that they love how submissive I am, but
that it could get me into real trouble one day.

Oh, little do they know
that it has gotten me in trouble long, long ago
my submissive nature made me afraid to say no
before I had given the situation any kind of second thought
I had told him that anything goes.

That "anything goes" left me aware of my worth;
maybe not to others,
because it was myself that was hurt.

He'd always leave at 2:53 P.M.
Swoosh fwoump.

It was only a matter of time,
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti

I wanted to be free.

He'd strap me to a chair and whisper,
sweet stories that you'd coo to *a child,
with sour breath running down my neck,
his greasy forehead pressed against my tear-stricken cheeks;
it'd deteriorate and culture in my ears.

His scent engulfed my mind,
my body, my soul...

He made a grave mistake,
dressing me in grimy socks,
making me dance skin-to-skin,
forcing me to kiss him, call him.

Oh no, you see,
he should have known.

I betrayed his trust, I'd pay the price,
"Isn't that right, Leila?"
That's not my name.

"Now Leila, darling, you're going to be a good girl,
for Daddy, aren't you?"
That's not my name.

"Leila, sweetheart, I can trust you, can't I?
Hmm? This will be our little secret,"
That's not my name.

"Aw, don't tell me, dear, beautiful Leila,
you aren't scared, are you?"
That's not my name.

I knew him well,
after a few months,
and his smell was musty,
only when I let it be.

He always liked sweets,
like me.

He was disgusting,
and my wrists ran red with incisions;
he'd lick them clean.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

"Oh Leila, sweetheart, I expect dinner when I get back,
won't you be a good girl,
and do as Daddy taught you?"
That's not my name.

So I did.

This kitchen was charming,
as much as his worn dining ware,
lined with cracked roses painted by Chinese overseas,
wondering when they would be used.

This was the first time I'd seen him genuinely smile,
"You look especially beautiful, tonight, Leila,
perhaps it's the sparkle in your eye,"
That's not my name.

He took a sip.

His glossy eyes hovered above his glass,
and his gaze drifted over to me,
in my grimy socks and brown-stained apron,
my long, dark hair drapped over my shoulders.

Another glass,
another glass,
another glass,
glass,
sugary sweet,
sweet,
down his lips,
lips,
lips,
teeth,
throat,
liver.

He liked sweets,
sweets,
sweets,
dripping, sipping,
sweet,
sugary sweet, nectar,
cool, smooth,
antifreeze.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

Silence.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti-

2:53 P.M.

Silence at 2:00-
2:00
2:00

I'd heard him cry,
"Leila, Leila, Leila,"
That's not my name.

He'd always leave at 2:53,
2:00,
silence.
He would never leave at 2:53,
2:53 P.M.

*I left at 2:53. Silence.

dress torn
underwear ripped
knees forced open
loud sobs fill the room
"shut the **** up"
she stills
begging to a god she didn't know she believed in to end it all
grunts and groaning
its over
"later babe"
she leaves behind ****** sheets, her cellphone, and a *piece of herself