She whispered it to me.
It was a kindness to her. An expensive indulgence.
“I trust you.”
I see the devil
In hate-black windows
And silvered mirrors.
It feels like
It should be easy
To feel worthy.
To her it was gentleness.
But to me
To me it was Corey’s boulders
On my chest.
More weight.
More weight.
And I can't draw breath
I don’t even know if I should.
Doing right by her isn’t hard.
Feeling righteous is.
Even now,
I crave the blood and pain.
My knuckles pierced by rage and plaster and
Facing away from her
To show her that I care.
That she’s safe with me.
But her trust terrifies me.
How gentle can I be
When her origami skin folds away
And her spider-glass bones shudder
Against my pathetic, brutish touch?
Love is sex, and sex is terror.
And I know she
Fears me.
Call it instinct, or
Biology, or prejudice.
But no man
Has ever made me feel
So small.
-
Author:
Bigguy (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 23rd, 2025 00:53
- Comment from author about the poem: This thing is very subject to change. What you see here is an intensely rough draft.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments1
Emotion in its stickiness covers this poem. It cries with oppression, sexual fear, its romance is with withdrawal like one that has been burned. It breaths with feelings of lack of worth and subservience. Sad and well written
Thank you very much! This is a very cool analysis.
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