Confusion, is not when
I misconstrue your touch.
It is when I shiver away
And die each day
in a corner of my mind.
Pain is not what I felt
when he tore me up from the inside.
It is that which soaks
my sheets in sweat at night.
Dreams are not what
I once wanted to be.
They are a ghostly memory
of foul breath and phantom bites,
On my lips and breasts.
When I scream, it isn’t pretty,
When I cry, snot and tears and vomit,
Don’t touch me.
It’s nothing like the movies.
When I rage with desire and need,
I never complete; Passion leaves
untouched and unwanted,
like a bastard child
conceived in rape and debauchery.
Like a butcher’s knife
cutting through tendons of tough meat,
My pulverized soul longs for respite.
Someone’s meal, someone else’s pride,
This is me, your shadow in the mirror.