tw: mentionings of ****** assault, allusion to suicide, racism, abuse, sexism
“I’m starving,”
mom says,
the empty void of the refrigerator
reflecting the state of her consciousness.
Little sister
clutches at her stomach,
as if willing her hunger away
would make it disappear.
I’ve made fine food,
yet their tongues
still decry their
miserable states of hunger.
Aren't men supposed to provide
the food,
a house,
and authority?
Aren’t women supposed to provide
the meals,
a home,
and emotionality?
My dad solely remains as DNA,
threatening to make me into
an alcoholic like him
if I don’t behave.
My mom’s boyfriend
rules over us women
with cruel dominion,
making us wish we never had feelings
since we just
feel
so
violated.
His Irish tongue has the scrutiny of
the White Man’s burden
over us colored women,
his cruelty unmatched from the state of war.
When he pulls on my hair,
incessantly demanding my attention,
I remember how
he
ruined my mom’s body
after surgery,
tearing her flesh apart freshly stitched together,
and digs in, blood seeping the bedsheets.
I was just
trying to study.
Trying to further my education
of escaping from this Hell
The Hell he threatens me with
doesn’t seem so scary
when I know
the Price:
being a part of his sick fantasy
of having a harem of mother and daughters
tortured and maimed by his hand,
and our cries only met with his wails.
He already has my mother
sewn into his
game of
escaping Hell.
She acts as his demon sometimes
out of fear,
reprimanding me for
daring to keep my door shut
for daring to
not scream,
keep my thighs together
for him.
My tongue strikes
as my only act of defense
in an effort not against him,
but against a betrayal of self.
I am hungry,
in constant fear and panic,
and am knowledgeable of both how his game functions
and my inability to escape it.
Tell me,
how could Hell
be any worse
than this?
As a *****
made by his hand,
I acknowledge that
my only way to Heaven:
My Escape
lies in sacrifice.
As an ultimate display of familial piety
to my mother and sister.
I take a kitchen knife,
pouring some rice onto a plate,
before stabbing my stomach with the blade,
watching as my flesh falls onto the steaming plate.
Now,
I admit with relief,
I will go to Heaven,
and I will not hear them go hungry!
I declare in pure elation,
feeling my consciousness
previously weighed down by the burdens of a woman
finally flying free from my twisted body.
I watch
from the clouds of Heaven,
having made my sacrifice,
and see
flies collecting
over my body;
the plate is untouched.
My halo wavers atop my head.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Don’t let my sacrifice be
for nothing.”
Sister has yet to leave her room.
I recall
feeling terrified myself
when I was within the confines of mortality.
Mom is—
I see her.
She’s eating.
All this time—
she was lying?
The clouds fall from beneath me,
and my wings are plucked,
causing me to experience a pain
that rivals the first time he tried me.
I come back to life
to witness firsthand
him, with a pig-like glint in his eyes,
gouging on the meal I had prepared.
My stomach
now sliding down his esophagus
reels with hatred.
On the brink of life and death once more,
my vision flickers.
I catch glimpses of
the devil’s horns
through his ***** blond hair.
In my final moments,
I am left to ask:
Did Earth ever really exist
in the first place?
