Red Hands

Merlin

We scream no

So how do they hear a yes?

Our voice they doth protest,

And how can we be 

 

So hated for just being a human being,

Are we dolls that can be torn apart

Destruction is a sacred art,

And my body is painted red

 

Can't you see the prints 

Where violent hands met skin

Where nos became a yes

Where silence meant consent,

 

And why does no one care,

When we scream

Do you even hear?

How can you not feel our pain 

 

How can you not see the blood from our veins?

How can you look me in the eyes 

And tell me that it was right,

How can you talk about his life 

 

As if he didn't ruin mine,

Why do our lives not matter 

When you already have our livers

On a sliver platter,

 

There's a problem

A sickness that keeps slipping in 

But we forget it

It's not a sin,

 

No instead it's this: 

 

They can't control it, 

Born for aggression,

Boys will be boys,

Skin will be skin,

 

Don't wear that, don't wear this 

You were asking for those red prints,

You smiled,

They bought a drink 

 

What do you think that means? 

You enjoyed it,

You were dating,

You didn't say no, how was I suppose to know?

 

You weren't that drunk

But even if you were,

What do you expect

From wearing that skirt,

 

Well let me tell you,

What I simply hear: 

 

Silence isn't a yes,

Dating isn't consent,

This is our body

Skin isn't a sin,

 

So before you tell me 

A life is ruined

It already was

And he's proof of it.

  • Author: Merlin (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: May 27th, 2022 02:27
  • Comment from author about the poem: Honestly you can consider this a rant poem. I've heard so many things like this about people who have suffered at the hands of people who can't 'control it'. They can. They just don't want to because they've never suffered at the hands of their own consequences. It never fails to anger me, and this poem is proof of that.
  • Category: Sad
  • Views: 29
  • Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
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Comments +

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    'Destruction is a sacred art,
    And my body is painted red'..
    in the film, Forrest Gump
    there is a heart-breaking scene
    that aligns with your poignant, write
    its a scene where 'jenny' throws rocks at her old house
    and everything is implied in her
    savage, crestfallen face
    and the embittered tears, streaking
    down them
    eventually, Forrest says
    '... there's just not enough stones'
    (
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYrmAF6SQmE
    )
    and because there won't ever be enough stones
    to reverse the morose injustice
    of such heinous, crimes
    as abuses by the ones we Trust..
    I feel
    any, achievable victory for survivors
    exists in finding a way
    to fuel that rage
    into something, that can yield
    a tangible benefit, in their life
    for I have witnessed it first hand
    and
    if an avenue for that hate, isn't found
    then it will consume them
    from inside out..
    (I laud your bravery, dear Poet
    thanks for sharing
    stay strong!)
    I posted a write on a similar topic
    titled
    'of Rapeseed Oil indifference'
    (
    https://mypoeticside.com/show-poem-145928
    )
    and a Genuine Poet here on MPS
    named Rachel Laurene
    has written several works on this topic
    you may find interesting to read
    here's a link to one:
    (
    https://mypoeticside.com/show-poem-135607
    )



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