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Your Voice

I dreamed of you again.


It seems that the years have only strengthened your voice. I can hear it perfectly. Sometimes I hear it from my own mouth. Whenever you echo inside me, your words become stronger, brighter, louder.


I dreamed I was back in Michigan, living again above the shop that filled my apartment with the fragrance of coffee and stacks of dusty books. I dreamed that you were there, calling me by that name. A whisper, a warning. You were always in that place, you know.


Why come back here? I know you are long gone.


Because I am sorry. I am sorry that I was so intent on my fear, robbing myself of my choices. It's funny how things like that haunt you, until you're left alone to realize that you brought it all upon yourself.


I was sitting in the women's shelter two years ago, with no car, no money, no job, crying over his cruelty. How could he do this to me? Didn't I love him enough? What had I done?


Silly girl, we all have to grow up sometime.


At some point I heard you again, your favorite word, choices.


Hadn't I made choices? That was a big word back then. The advocates in the shelter spoke about our choosing to leave, choosing to be victims. I had made those decisions. I woke up every morning and chose to continue living that way.


I was drunk on the power of choice.


Within two weeks I had moved out of the shelter. I had a car, a job, a place to live, and I was going to school. All because I chose to have those things, chose to be independent, powerful, strong.


It would be nice to say that I no longer make bad choices, but that's not exactly true. I still make them, maybe with more frequency than I should, but they're mine now. I control them.


Thank you for teaching me about choosing, about mindfulness. Thank you for the words that still burn in my heart and the pendant I always wear to remind me.


I still love you. The removal of my collar has not removed you from me. There will always be a part of me that belongs to you, perhaps because you helped me to own myself.


If you read this, I hope you can forgive me for the choices I made. Maybe I'll get up the nerve to call you, tell you myself. I fear that you have no desire to hear it. I fear that after all this time you hate me. I hope that's not true.


Thank you, Anthony, for everything.


Nothing more than an era
a few inconsequential years
chalked up to immaturity
and glaring oversight.

your memories of me
your promises and
the consequences
of this, my departure
meaning little more
than pouring the dregs from
your glass.

You sold the rings
the mark still burns on my finger
where your band sat for over a year
my flesh lovingly molded around it
and still unwilling to believe
I don't wear it anymore.

Yet you were able to coolly hand them
over the glass counter, letting them fall
from your open hand to a cold fist,
calculating the bargain
perhaps just the pleasure
of expunging my memory
was enough.

I remember the day you proposed to me
how you knelt and the background faded
melting away like chalk in the rain
and as you candidly offered up
your love in the form of white gold and diamonds
how I was sure, in that moment
that this was the truest thing in my life.

I still wear your brand
bitterly I cried when I read it
that you had so easily stricken me from your life
when even my own body betrays the memories of you.

I've heard about her too.
The short brunette, your mother loves her
you proudly attest that after dating for months
you still haven't slept with her.

You fucked me on the first date, did you tell her?
How your eager hands devoured my body
offered up like a sacrifice after begging you
begging you with innocent eyes,
not to hurt me.
Did you tell her how I wrapped my arms
around you and made you feel like a man?
I heard that girl still calls you 'she.'

How easily you have wiped me away
yet I can't believe that you've forgotten.
I can't believe you don't bare marks
some part of you
remembers me.


Don't talk to strangers, you say
why the hell do you dress that way?
You're asking for it, asking for
-gasp- objectification.

Idolized, objectified,
working with what can be
rectified, a sense of placement
in my misplaced world
questioning the basics
of "boy" and "girl".

I've loved boys like girlfriends
smeared lipstick on lips
that have tasted more dick
than I could even imagine
in my gang-rape nightmares
when I wake up questioning my
feminist principals
committing the unthinkable
imagining for a moment
that lesbianism is more than a political party.

More than me
is the man towering over me,
his dick strapped on for my pleasure
fear and rapture
and images of being forced
wide open

Once upon a time I was
helpless, trapped
beneath a man that still haunts my fantasies
forced too wide for his rapacious destiny
and me, too little to remember his face.
Too little for too many things.
I can feel the scars until
I feel that stretch
that breath
that endless caress
when some mind blows on mine
and erases those careless memories
for a time.

I've been found hiding behind
words too powerful for my control
pinned beneath choices I made
and crucified for enjoying the ride,
for putting my lover's face on
my pedophiles' memories
for being too honest to lie.

You can deny
you can deny me,
deny what you were feeling when you were
feeling me.
Deny how you were soaked under your dick
when I picked that word so
eloquently simple
so simply illogical
so devastating that your hips didn't care
your lips didn't care
your clit as it burned
at the base of your dick
didn't care
and as matter of fact
were elated by the use of that word

A title, a pet name, a fucking accusation
Oh yes, you liked it.
You came for it,
bit bruises into my neck as I screamed it
like a confession we shared it
as a door to our salvation.
As gospel and revelation we
devoured it and
the red tracks down your back are pure proof
of the fact
that sometimes
it's worth looking back.

Taste of Summer

There's nothing like paying four times the listed price for a sticky dixie cup of warm lemonaid served by two very enthusiastic little waitresses. This one isn't too bad. I've stopped for sugery water with a half a lemon spilling bitter seeds into my mouth before, gummy chocolate cookies and clumsily woven friendship braclets,- but this lemonaid even when sipped at it's ninty-seven degree base temperature is not that bad. 

Or maybe it's the smiles on the faces of the sweaty, sticky, juice-stained girls that sold it to me. As I sit at my desk in my air-conditioned office, I pray for a little of the carefree excitement I was served with today. Even though I'm aware that no matter how many clients walk in, I'll be paid the same amount, and even though I can't abandon my business to chase down the ice-cream man, waving my entire salary, my smile is still a little bigger.

I can't help but think that maybe those girls aren't charging enough.  

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