As a human-being, there are things that you're wired to feel.
Hate, love, jealousy, envy, happiness, shame.
What if one felt the wrong emotion at the wrong time,
Or simply lacked "accurate" emotions at all?
Does it make me any less human than the rest of the world?
Perhaps, I've just adapted.
Become what was asked of me by unheard voices.
Become what was asked of me by unheard voices.
Voices that faded with time and only left an echo,
reminding me of why I am the way I am.
reminding me of why I am the way I am.
I do not feel love. I feel the need to be wanted.
But if you say those three lying words,
But if you say those three lying words,
I'll spew with the only emotion that feels familiar to me: Anger.
They say I'm malicious; a feminist. A harpy. But I am not.
I am what they forced me to be.
I am what they forced me to be.
If a man beats a dog she'll whimper and recede.
That dog will always associate man with that beating.
In her eyes, if the man comes near,
the beating isn't far behind.
the beating isn't far behind.
Thus, If a man comes running to her,
even with the best intentions, she'll remember the fists,
even with the best intentions, she'll remember the fists,
And she'll growl and bare her teeth, ready to bite.
Man has turned her into an distrusting dog.
Man has turned her into an distrusting dog.
I'm the bitch you have ruined.
A woman, late at night is escorted home from church,
Trusting this Godly man to protect her.
They laugh-- he speaks of the service they just attended;
He marvels at her beauty,
He marvels at her beauty,
Then suddenly she's cornered in a dark alley.
He's begun questioning her; Pressing her.
In her ignorance she tries to laugh it off.
He is not laughing. This man is grabbing. Hushing. Forcing.
This man did not love God.
This man loved women's flesh. Stolen flesh. Broken flesh.
He destroyed the beauty of a woman.
If she can not trust a "Godly" man,
what man could she ever trust?
what man could she ever trust?
I'm the woman you ravaged.
A lover kisses her neck, woos her with words
and comforts her in his arms.
and comforts her in his arms.
Those arms that hug her, pin her down and hit her.
They bind her in anger.
They bind her in anger.
His tongue that spoke so kindly now scorn her.
They turn to arrows, piercing her heart.
They turn to arrows, piercing her heart.
His mouth has grown tired of kissing her.
His lips tight. Face turned away.
His lips tight. Face turned away.
He is a mirror. The pagus form of my younger life.
These words are no stranger.
They haunt my dreams and debilitate my actions.
They haunt my dreams and debilitate my actions.
If her lover no longer admires her, he becomes nothing but an "er".
An awkward word used when you've made a mistake in your speech.
And likewise, If the "er" escapes from the title as father,
you are left with only a fath--
you are left with only a fath--
The depth of a grave that you have begun to be laid in.
I'm the worthlessness you have both spoken.
Do not come to me speaking of amour.
You rank no higher than story book fables.
I have felt love. It died in my arms.
I have felt hate. It brews in my eyes.
I have felt envy, every bargain I propose drips with it.
I have felt Happiness. It comes in the form of printed text.
I am shame. My breath summons it.
Any man who dares tell me I am wrong.
Prove it. With no case, there is no verdict.
If you dare laugh at me, first listen to the atrocities I speak of.
Then, and only then, point a judging finger.
