Puzzling.

And he makes me want to carve myself.
Starving from extended winter,
I beckon to you with a finger.
Trembling; my veins fill with splinters.

Wooden slivers cut me from the inside,
I race towards any assistance.
Pressed, I pray for brooding brilliance.
Why do you play my ribs like piano keys.

Signal to you with smoky urgency,
peer into your zippered soul,
through magnifying glass eyes,
I catch you in action.

Hinting at the secret;
the secret code to my hunter heart.
You can access its emotion.
But do not tell the others.

Capture me in your net,
I beach myself on your bed.
You become the shore,
I slap at you lazily, like ocean.

Flowing, we crash into one another.
Resonate within me like cymbals.
I vibrate—cut me in two million pieces.
I win with my hands down.

Hold me in your clammy palm,
then blow me away, like dust.
Just let me scatter.
I yearn to know all the places!

No longer a mortar fortress.
Refined by this scandalous resilience.
These broken embraces can get so jumbled.
Shutter me. Forget my vulnerability anyway.

Stormy.

A haunting melody emerges,
from deep inside a Scandinavian enchantress.
Her sentiments alluring, 
capture my fluorescence.

I yearn to be charmed;
she steals all the blessings.
Pricks me with a needle,
drawing blood from a peephole.

With one thread, spellbinding,
beads dance, emphasizing.
I underline a reminder,
joined at the waist, we mingle.

Crash into me like a stormy shore,
dampening my every pore.
Meet me inside a darkened cave,
your fingers are hungry.

Piercing, I sew us together;
classical dances align us.
Like a string coming loose,
we are forever unraveling.

Saartjie.

Saartjie, Saartjie, Baartman,
her name warrants repetition.
She was a Nubian queen who
was exploited without permission.

They dubbed her the "Hottentot Venus,"
as though she were a freak,
stripped her of her dignity,
then marvelled at her physique.

This African woman is the reason
why black females are still fetishized.
She had no say or control
over the shape or size of her thighs.

My spirit weeps for Saartjie,
paraded throughout Europe, like some kind of clown,
and whenever I think of injustice,
her name is the first to come to mind.

Rape Culture.

The day she learned to talk, her mother cautioned her to listen.
Moments after her first steps, mama showed her how to run.
Preparing young Sylvie for the inevitable day, 
when she caught the attention of a man who refused to go away.

Sylvie knew all about the monsters under the bed,
she was well-versed on the boogeyman, who filled her with dread.
She could describe the Wolf-man, Dracula, and even Frankenstein,
but her mother warned her the wickedest creature of all was mankind.

She said, “This world was not built for us, we are merely trespassers here.”
Determined to protect her daughter from the same predatory men she feared.
Why do we teach young girls to keep themselves safe,
without teaching little boys not to hurt or maim?

We desire to build our daughters up to believe they can do anything,
to raise them to be confident, and devoid of suffering. 
But what good is it when society just shoots them down,
laughing at them for thinking it were any different now.

The prevalent culture today treats women like objects;
it teaches them to avoid late hours, and even polices how they dress.
When a man finally lapses, and commits insidious rape,
excuses are made in courtrooms, to prevent justice from taking place.

There is no such thing as justice when athletes and celebrities 
are let off with less than a slap on their wrists. 
How are our sisters and daughters to feel valued like this,
when all the evidence proves their cases will only be dismissed. 

It is as though their pain is meaningless,
like a woman’s worth is nothing when compared to her male counterpart’s. 
The system is made up of ripped stockings, scars, and broken hearts. 
How are we expected to compete with the corrupt patriarchs who are in charge?

Imagine the pain of having your innocence stolen from you,
the agony of being penetrated by someone you never knew.
No amount of counseling could erase the tears that come at night,
the sole consequence of being used then tossed aside, and left to die.

Rape is such a malevolent act, it robs victims of their entire lives;
the futures they could have had are tarnished, their dreams all fade to black.
Anxiety rushes to the surface, signaling another oncoming panic attack,
paranoia collaborates with post-traumatic stress creating never-ending flashbacks.

There cannot be change until even privileged rapists are made examples of,
justice will fail to exist until every criminal understands the severity of their actions.
We can pretend equality exists all we want, that will not make it so,
I stand with survivors and I’ll fight for their cause until faith in my fellow man can be restored.