The blacktop stings the palms of my hands and burns my fingertips.

My legs feel the crunch of gravel beneath them.

I spit blood. Warm and metallic.

Somehow I manage to rise to my feet.

My knees are in shock. They quake profusely.

I stare at you, astounded. The sun lights your face.

A warm smile appears there.

A sharp blow to the stomach.

Back down.

Pain shoots up my spine.

My head throbs. With each beat, I hear your name.

Again, I crawl from my knees to my feet.

Desperation.

And again, you strike me down.

Repeat the process.

Repeat the process.

Repeat the process.

Oklahoma City cop charged with sexually assaulting eight women
Gang of men sexually assault Vic women
Woman assaulted by five men in South Yarra lane
Suspect arrested in ****** assault of 9-year-old Surrey girl

These are just four headlines that pop up on Google out of ca. 95.300.000 results. Search and you will find endless proof of how when men hunt,  women are always in season.

To men, women don't seem to register as human beings or as people but as *prey,
as something to be
consumed
claimed
forced
butchered
and sold like meat.

Treated as objects.
like animals by the men they cried their hearts out to,
by the men who have sworn to serve and to protect,
by the men they granted the privilege of their love
by the men whom they call fatherbrotherunclecousin

Sometimes, you might wonder how the perpetrators of such savage, cold-blooded and downright ******* actions could ever claim to be human beings.

Human [adj] - sympathetic, benevolent, humane

I say bring these inhuman degenerates before a court of women.
Bring them forth, and let their victims gain satisfaction.
Let them pay the blood debts they owe, and let the women collect what they are due

Let women grin at them with mouths full of razors,
let them corrode the savage flesh of men with acid claws.
Let them swallow men whole.

Women are dragons, unknowingly
but when they learn of their nature - fire will erupt from their chests like cataclysms and men will be dragged into this century kicking and screaming, or they will learn not to meddle in the affairs of dragons, because thou art crunchy and good with ketchup.

He woke, as before, a boy.
She told him he would be a man,
As his father was out cutting turf,
And his mother told him the story,
He had heard before by the fire.
No pages to this book, not a leaf.

When he was younger, this boy
Had once cut, alone, the turf.
But upon placing it in the fire,
He decided instead to burn the mother of the leaf,
And that he did not want to be a man.
He couldn’t tell himself her story.

He saw his mother, an aspen leaf
Trembling by the fire,
As what was deemed a man
Turned her blackened eyes into a story.
He had always resembled a boy
Even to his own son, who pressed his tear-stained face into the turf.

His father tried to prove the boy a man
But found instead that he was hardly even boy.
So drink hid him from the story
While the not-boy cried by the fire
Knowing that he could not touch his fathers turf.
It was not like a man to shake as if a leaf.

The not-boy decided again not to be a man,
And lying in the earth found a fire
Inside that showed him a story
He had told himself as a boy
In which those who were only leaves
Could not have their own turf.

He was not the only boy
Who did not understand “man”
None did, and instead told a story
About how only the strongest leaf
Would cut the turf
And that only women would tend the fire.

Boys do not cut turf.
Leaves fall and we still tell stories
Of how fire somehow makes a man.

12-17-2-13

Her face flooded with scarlet
her nose flushing out bright red
Did I do it?
Did I do that?
How could I just do that;
was it someone else instead?
She says three separate people
control the thoughts inside my head.
"which one is the realest"  she asks.
I'm not pretending when I ask for amending.

If you were a flower
I'd drown you in water,
burn you after you died,
and keep the ashes under
my mattress,
then craft a poem
out of your roots,
and toss your soil
into a lake.

cheap makeup covered
the purple marks of his "masculinity"
forced upon her in the hours of
coal, coldness and blame.

before it got too much,
I saw her stand on her tiptoes
and dissolve into the night sky,
into the night gutters,
into the night cries,
of pills, diets and mutters.

and right as the moon
swallowed her whole,
only to spit her out onto
guilt soaked mornings;
she survived.

I remember the sound of her scream.
Echoing like the sound nails make
when scratched against a chalkboard.
I remember the smell of her blood.
Smelling like her last drop of life left.
I remember the way her hand trembled...
as she pleaded me not to throw another punch, with her hands raised and shaking like those of a man's suffering from Parkinson's.
I remember the way her son watched.
His eyes growing tears,
only fifteen,
but his hands were stained by the blood of his mother
with his death like plea,
to let his mother flee,
because her breath was starting to grow thin.
I remember.
The way her olive skinned face felt pressed against my bullet proof shield
and how her gentle hands wrapped around my wrists,
hoping for me to feel the humanity slipping from her finger tips.
I remember how she never showed aggression.
How the only hand she raised before mine,
had *******,
reminding me why she was here.

A shining steampunk romance
Found at the end of the earth
Risen from ashes,
whilst a world falls to ruins
around them.
Yet reality is nothing to these girls.

A call to love in apocalypse
A sick smile pulls at her lips
Engulf in flames, my everything,
she says,
Because, ****, it'll be worth this last kiss.

This war rages like a great manic animal
Destruction every step of the way
On opposite sides,
they're to fight for their lives,
it's each to their self and their own.

"They're wrong."
"I know."
"They don't know what we have."

What they're missing is theirs,
a love rarely had.

We're over and we're done,
the world would say,
It's the end of the day.

"Not for us. Not even close."
She takes her hand. Turns her back on all she's lived.
"This, my dear,
This is where life begins."

The enlightened say
violence has no place,
But do they value it
anyway?