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Memories of Misogyny

Iím drawing on history in erasable marker
Playing with the memories just to see
If I can remember them differently
Though reality has branded itself
Into my mind, down my breasts
Across my stomach and into my cunt.

My body remembers like the traitor it is
Flinging my mind backwards into brick walls
And bedposts, bottle of endless oblivion lying
Un-shattered beside me, staring at empty ceilings
Wondering if I am real, when my headís not there
Though my body canít escape the weight
Or the violation that began with a look
In the eyes of men I would learn to recognise
By the invisible ants crawling over my skin.

Nothing burns nor scars quite so deeply
As the violation of space, hands and knees pressing
Thighs apart, to reach the prize inside that was never
Theirs to take. Strong hands pinning fragility
To a dirty mattress, tearing it apart with pain
And heavy breathing, while Iím not daring to look in eyes
That reveal nothing but an abyss of misogyny  
With a violent domination complex.

And Iím wondering what I did to find myself here
Or there, remembering being held down and impaled
For a man, for more than oneísÖ pleasure
SoberÖ drunkÖ drugged up (How did that happen?)
While trying to hold onto reality when
It would be much better if I couldnít remember
The pain ripping through my body as Iím pushed
And shoved, and poked and prodded, stabbed with
All things male and phallic, over and over
With unwanted lust I cannot stop.

You never forget what itís like to be raped
With a look, sickness in the eyes of men
That havenít touched you yet, but will
If you hang around long enough to give them
The time of day or share a cigarette from your
Diminishing packet.  Maybe smoke that bong
Thatís laced with you donít know what.
So tanked with whiskey or wine, youíre more alcoholic    
Than the empty bottles you got drunk from.

Memories that surface and riddle my body
With violation and physical remembrance
Iím still trying to disconnect from, so many years later
Coupled with the realisation that it was never my fault
While Iím drawing on history in erasable marker
That make no difference to pictures of a violent reality.

© Indie Adams 2012
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
Published | Edited 19th May 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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