Lightly infused with a sprig of self-hate.

Written by Mariama Kanu


He stood there, proudly, and called her a whore after making her a whore the night before.  Lightly infused with a sprig of self-hate, he inundated this lovely woman's frame with all the arm cuts he wished to give himself.  Higher and higher up her arm he went, because better her than him; because better she be ridiculed than he be shamed; because better she be blamed.  My mouth gaping open in indignation, tumult and frustration, I screamed out loud in solidarity with the whore. With the slut, the woman-friend, the concubine, the miss on-the-side.  She was chosen and she was flung, like an old candy wrapper never honored enough to be kept in shape so the leftovers would have a home to which they could return.  No, she was never desired enough to not be ripped to shreds every time.  And you wonder why women shriek in disgust at proclamations of a lover bigger than the moon "beating it up.”  Is there confusion about me not wanting to be a part of your self-centered pre-fantasy?  How could I hear how you made her a conquest ready for the presses early next morning?  I won't listen to you treat me like fruit meant to be eaten and never enjoyed. I won't stand to hear my sister just be yesterday to your today; you've moved on but here we are, with permanent scars that can never be erased only lightened and scrubbed til faint, over and over and over as we wait.  We wait to be seen, we wait to be wanted, wait to be heard, wait for someone to really listen. We wait for the conquest to end with a booty of treasure that someone actually wants the next day, we wait for the next guy to determine if yesterday's assessment is worthy to stay.  We've waited, we've waited, we've waited, we wait.

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