I Am a Slave to Your Lips

I am a slave to your lips

As you kiss mine my heart repulses

But my mind slaps my heart across the face

In sync with you slapping my ass multiple times. Pulling my hair every time you insert.

I see myself out of my own body

Screaming, “Ya”

Wondering how these words can possibly stumble out of my mouth

They cannot walk straight for protests my eyes

To the acts of I

They despise

While my pussy continues to apologize

For the wounds, sores and scratches I feel the next morn

But for now I moan

To your grunting tone

Oh how I wish I drank more of that wine

You ask me to objectify myself for that is only how I will receive your love

What is your love

Do you understand the concept?

Or are you just doing the job of a philosopher, talking your way through.

The world will never know

Because you refuse to show

Your skin

So you expose

Mine

Use me like a puppeteer

I agree

Do it for free

Waiting my heart ticking like a clock for some love in return

But still all I feel is my pussy, burn

The liquid grazing my belly button might as well be tears

But instead semen

Because the tears were too shy to cum

After you close my legs and hum

The mantra you repeat every night

“Goddamn you are beautiful”

In order to ignite

A spark in my clitoris

While my heart ticks, still waiting

No spark

Only I mark

Your sheets

Like my naked body, no longer pure

Stained with red. They must endure.

You clean me up and act as if it is a favour.

Although it is a gratifying way to say thank you, for allowing yourself to taste a new flavour.

Of women

Because that is what we are

A new product on the shelf waiting to be tested.

A new toy carefully toyed with

Watch out!

It’s too late.

You broke me.

Like our consumerism society.

You have no time to put the object back together.

So you go to the club

And buy a new one the next day

You clean her up that night the same way.

Your efforts to keep your toy new and shiny are amazing.

No warranty necessary.

For once I am bones and no more flesh.

You know recycling is the trendiest of trends?

You can just call up my friend

Fuck her.

Call up her friend

Fuck her.

Repeat the process until one says

Fuck you.

So you fuck yourself.

Until you go back to the store, and hear her say “fuck me all night, because I know you won’t want to fuck with me in the morn.”

It is true as he scorns.

Releases his tension with his daily dose of porn.

Plastic should not be allowed to speak.

What a Black Sharpie Has Taught Me (Spoken Word)

I am a woman. What is a woman? Is she curvy? Is she straight? Does she make you a sandwich after work from 5-8?

Does she have nice boobs and an ass to match?

Does she know how to sweet talk you that she’s a catch?

Is she blonde? Brunette? A unique red head at that?

Green eyes, blue, brown, purple, orange, yellow, lilac?

Does she meet your requirements on the list you made?

Passive? Quiet, oppressed in the day?

Good in the sheets, good enough to be paid?

A heavy fortress towers over her

A sadness not defined

But when she looks in the mirror

It seems a little clearer

She paints the broken lines.

All over her body she starts at her muffin top

That bulges out of the way

For a magnet she is to the leeches that take a bite at her each day

So she contemplates gagging because ‘her metabolism is lagging’

So the journey to the toilet she embarks

After she’s done, the stomach has won

She looks in the mirror at once and sings

I’m so pretty… I’m so pretty and witty and bright! And I pity… any girl who isn’t me tonight…

Amazed….she’s amazed with the bones that peek through her skin getting their stardom, shining through

Amazed…amaze… A MAZE?

The journey she once embarks again.

Back to the toilet her and the demons hold hand in hand.

Pretty and witty and bright? Pretty and witty and bright? 

But wait oh wait they’re not done

The creatures grab the sharpie and ink but not one…

Two of her breasts for they are not in shape

Implants is what you need honey! A Perfect body we strive to make.

Their threats pierce into the skull. Yes, I believe this is an unfortunate reality of truth

The dotted line goes further and further down the thighs as they gasp hesitantly for air

For the gap wasn’t strikingly there.

So she traced the thick black lines for her body shape could not possibly be pear.

Wait what’s that a drip I see?

Of water ruining the ink, trickling down her knee?

Her eyes are crying in great desperacy.

I know! They must be fixed. Some cheap fake eyelashes might do the trick. They will keep the mascara from running, a peaceful drought.

Add some eye cream at the age of 15, when she is 60 no wrinkles no doubt.

Thin dotted lines trace around the wrinkles surrounding her eyes. As the marker bleeds of tears.

The ink comes down

To her crane of a nose

The sharpie walks along, not caring of any impose

See nose jobs are the norm, they will do the trick

It will go from a triangle, to a perfect line, quick fix.

Hold up… I’m missing something grand.

Her lips! Yes her lips! Are as thin as quick sand!

She draws the line to insert a needle the next day.

She is perfectly content accepting the pain with a weak “OK?”

Finally, pretty and witty and bright. Pretty and witty and bright. 

Darling, but black is not your soul. The perfection of the permanent marker won’t stay.

For everything sweetheart, it does decay.        

She stares at the reflection that stares back at her in defeat. The black ink slowly fades with a hesitant goodbye.

She looks internally.

Veins tired, exhausted of sucking in my stomach when an eye walks by, stuffing my breasts, no room for my real one’s to comfortably lie, her eyes tired of pinching shut, her lips tired of folding the screeching screams inside, and her heart tired of seizing the anger she has of her very own skin.

Because I am a woman. Pretty and witty and bright. 

Acid

I am in a tiny white room

Although nothing is moving, the room seems to be getting smaller and smaller until I barely have any oxygen to breath

You then flood the room with a toxic fluid, which drowns my soul into you

The fluid pours into my head showing me you going in and out and in and out and in and out of another human being

The water is chilled while all you feel is warmth

The vulgar words that come out of your mouth are sickening

I cry for help feeling like an innocent girl with pink ribbons in her hair, getting skinned from her dignity and strength.

My flesh is all that is left in the toxic water as you ingest my soul and strength

It is being stung over and over again with little electric tugs from the acidity in my thoughts

The hands begin to clench, palms sweaty.

The stinging happens over and over and over as you are grunting and grunting and with pleasure

Faster and faster you go with her as my flesh slowly begins to deteriorate in the small white box

Nothing is left but an acidic stained heart.

The acid begins to spit up into my mouth

My heart has turned purple from the cries, yelps and bruises you have left

You continue to be pleasured with cursing and the honking laughter of your vulgar companions, new breasts, much more fulfilling than mine, and sinful sheets that you wash at each crime

The water floods out and the room returns to it’s white colour

All that is left on the pale tiles is a decayed, warn out heart, a deep purple bruise.