Colors of Damnation

You sit in the corner of the bar
and whisper you’re fine in the sullen air.
But the insides of your thighs
burn like alcohol on fire because
he went too hard on your last night.
Slow down, you said lovingly the first time,
hands in his hair.
Slow down, this time with the dawn of damnation
thrusting mercilessly inside you.
Slow down, you shout when the lovemaking turns
into meaningless fucking.
But he keeps on going because men don’t listen
from their ears but their dicks.
In the morning, he gives you an expensive ring.
A materialistic apology studded with rubies of the color
his piercing fingers drew on your body.
Night after night, you become his punching bag
and keep offering him warmth like a fucking
hot water pack,
losing all of yours in the feeble hopes
that someday it would be fine.
Listen, it will not be fine because your love
has already decayed and the ghost of it keeps
showing up in purple and red and black and brown
all over your skin.
You video call your mother and
break down like brittle crayons.
Your colors sneak out with tears
until you are nothing but a lump of wax,
shapeshifting into whatever
he wants you to be.
Your mother slides down her blouse and shows you
a fresh bruise from last night your father gave her.
It is how it is but it gets better with time, she says.
And that’s where all the mothers go wrong.
IT DOESN’T FUCKING GET BETTER.
So sign the papers, draw the last blood on the account
your dripping bloodstream, night after night.
And don’t listen to him, your mother, his father,
this society and their Gods.
He will beg, maybe slow down in the night and maybe he
will be man enough to continue this for some time.
But he will not be woman enough to do it lifelong.
Perhaps, man enough is the wrong term we held onto,
like many other things.
So yes, sign the papers and tell me you’re fine,
really fine.
And hey, wear the original dusk of your skin
and bury the decaying purple to the ground,
for good.


Photo by Steve Johnson from Pexels

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