Failure. Part One.

So… I’ve seen this picture circulated around for a while now.
But this time it reminded me of a poem I wrote years ago, and decided to share.

I dedicate this to all the women who carry the little girl they once were… a burden so personal, yet so universal.

All my love:



there’s a little girl living inside this grown woman
hymen torn, kinda like mines
her tantrums are my menstrual cramps.

she sits Indian style at the base of me
bathing in my unshed womb
blocking my cervix with her toes

only she can remember our hurt.

as the keeper of my sorrow
she relinquishes it piece by piece
pushing pain thru my pores with her palms
the surface as white heads
carrying the seed residue of forgotten ejaculations

on good days she jumpropes  with my bowels and naps
because i am busy forgetting about her
belief making that my molestation toxins
didn’t stunt her growth

she yanks at my rib cage every time a penis lay in my vagina
my kidneys… her ear plugs to muffle my orgasmic screams

and to love her… is to fail at everything

she’s too old to pacify.
her terror lay dormant flaring like herpes.
she clings to my chakras for deal life
crying tears that secrete sweat under my arms

do you know what its like to have an inconsolable
seven year old dwelling in the crevices of you?

i drink wine to calm her.


4 thoughts on “Failure. Part One.

  1. that last stanza and line kill. the imagery in this one is strong and visceral. love. but hate. hate that it has to exist in the first place.

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