My God. My Idol. My Enemy. My Saint.
You made us an altar
from leather belted love.
First item up: Magazine Womenfilth between their legs spread wide
across our broken coffee table.
|Your eyes meet mine like glass shards.
I turn the pages dutifully and learn.
Good girl, you say.
Now I will never grow beautifully,
only damaged.
My whore blood flowed inside.
Father, despite your efforts,
I did not die.
Fear tangled nerve cells cut off breath,
not my heart.
I learned how to feel alive as the air
we both breathe.
One by one
my fingers traced emotional webs.
Knots loosened until release was assured.
Until they pulsed. Ate. Drank. Came.
They came loud,
awakened from near death.
An orgasm of fuck-you
from the mouths of angels.
They came like soldiers,
front line warriors defiantly stunning.
Now I sleep awake, but safer.
I lock doors no one knows I possess,
open windows, flaps of valves.
Fresh air is a touch my fingers crave.
Warm. Desired. My mouth opens,
breathes in a thousand kissesall the ones I missed.
Life is soft.
A searching tongue brushing my skin.
Filth is a memory, faint.
But whispering, barely audible.
Strong enough to know.
Just strong enough, father.
Just.
(Cyndi Dawson, 2011)