Dirty

my hands are dirty,
calloused, sore from years
of self-inflicted pain.
i wanted to point out
your plot, belittle your spot,
what you spent your money on.
someone made an easy buck…
but then you surprised me.
made me lick my wounds
before they were made,
you spoke up, in hushed tones,
caused a midlife self-review,
quickly turned to a crisis.
and now…
alone,
caught up in a stare down,
dingy mirror,
tortured soul hiding in tousled hair.
mistakes scattered over my feet,
across a hardwood floor.
and there’s the door,
to let myself out.
there’s the door,
under lock and key.
there’s the door,
to leave any time i want.
but i’m too busy cleaning my spot,
to point my finger.
jesus, help me…
my hands are so fucking dirty.

Mannequin

skin, sounds like…something
(ponders) presses thighs together
slaps, skin slaps,
against nothing.
breasts, perk.
flushed, wants slither
and snake in.
perks up, he enters,
room shrinks.
typical, a dime a dozen.
but (her)
legs are longer,
muscles taut.
draws conclusions.
makes assumptions.
longs for,
seeks attention.
needs affection.
clears throat.
breath comes in soft moans,
speaks in hushed tones.
fingertips slip
fabric clings,
thinking about the things
selfishness.
between the emotions
bites her bottom lip
looking for lust,
all the wrong (places).
void of,
feeling frustrated.
empty faces
needs persist,
frustration sinks in…
behavior like this,
rectifies nothing.

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Birdie

compared to a bird,
self-serving, distant.
but tries,
tries to fly
while locked in a cage.
touches to feel,
flees over freeze,
sometimes fights, mostly preys
typically on songbirds.
hardest to satisfy
hunger pangs
even on the best days.

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Photo: Alex in black and white, double exposure with birds in flight.

The House

this was the house that rape built,
on the land destitution claimed,
in the name of injustice.
foundation cracked
once in a lifetime.
housed guilt,
until rage came home.
slut shaming clothed
daughters backsides.
whispers in the face
of truth
you refused to hear
every girl was the bearer of
bad news.
hardships worn like heirlooms.
shutters closed tight,
even in daylight.
and this was the house rape built.

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Sheila from Pulaski.

give me the strength,
“just give all of you”
(to me)
implied,
walks away.
nothing lost in translation
she cocked her head,
he cocked his gun.
across the face,
back (then)
hands were for holding.
fold, she gives in.
maybe tomorrow
will be the next time
“no one leaves me”,
more like
“no woman would grieve me.”
chuckles, then pays tenfold
with the same hands
she used to hold.
apologetic,
clockwork, cycles.
drive by love affairs,
as her shift ends,
“this shit again?”
not for lack of trust,
“this is for your safety”
echoes, so she holds her tongue.
dropped weight,
stress made hunger
GO AWAY[!]
this SHE pleases him.
later she tries to rub one out,
jealously, seethes in him.
both boil, one brims.
hits her again,
-grows cold-
questions, with soft tones
?
no reply?
he cocks his head.
She cocks his gun.
DONE.