This is a personal documentation through poetry.
I am learning to look inward now, give myself love when I least want to. I do not live to love others, I live to love myself. I will find and create what is enough for me, and you will learn to let it...
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I can love the hands of men. They cradle me knowing my importance, Like a gun in their tight grip. Not that they'd respect it, though. They are eager and hungry all over my skin. Touching whenever they might get away with it. And I drink enough to make them think I won't remember a thing. Oh, men are dogs, And I lie in their dish. The blood in their teeth most likely matches my wound, As he lifts my shirt to see what he can find. Then I have another drink when I really shouldn't, No, I really shouldn't. But I'd give anything to feel that quick attention. Quick pleasure. Quick punishment for my womanhood. Look at me again, from the corner of your eye, Hold my hand, and I won't mention it when I wake. Kiss my face three times, not on the lips. Just three times, again, I remember now. Send me to bed and when I wake, It will be the last I ever see of that room.
