he’s not the reason I breathe; he’s the reason the
breath of me should be stricken from my lungs.
that man. that man that was never a man, but a
vulture circling, waiting to descend on a plain girl
like me, languishing on the barren road of loneliness,
desperate for any touch.
 
desperate to hear the lies spoken quickly and easily:
‘you’re pretty.’ you see, we take those lies, and we
weave them into a string of pearls to wear around
our necks, because it’s the only beauty we’ll ever have.
 
so you work for him, you clean his rooms, you cook his
meals. and one day, the food is too cold, or the beer’s
too warm, and he needs to hit something, and of course
it’s your fault, so he hits you…
 
some nights, he kisses my shoulder. he comes like a
gentle petitioner to the harbor between my thighs, and
my tarnished grail is momentarily golden. he uplifts me;
and that is my downfall.
 
if I could leave this place, if I could walk away from
the sparse and precious moments of tenderness,
I would eat my own heart.