The Man.

I’ve recently fallen in love with Olivia Gatewood, who does some amazing “slam poetry.” I hate that it’s called “slam” because it insinuates that speaking your feelings is a slam on someone when it, in fact, is just how you feel. It got me inspired and here is my first stab at it. Interpret how you wish. The Man knows.

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The Man tells me that I’m too opinionated. As if by having thoughts that I put into words I take the air that fuels his very own brain. As if by thinking out loud I’m clamping my painted fingers around his fragile windpipe and I’m cutting off his life.

The Man tells me he can’t talk to me until I calm down. Until I’m submissive, he means. The Man doesn’t answer the phone in fear of my lipsticked words that don’t cry for help but grow thunder clouds with their moisture. He’s afraid of them as if they are rain that will drown the weeds he planted and that my air sucking opinions will halt the growth of what will never grow. But they will never grow. 

The Man doesn’t want to give me sentences because my mascara coated lashes make me mean. My perfectly working ovaries are intimidating and The Man knows they will tear apart his sentences until they are just pieces of phonics that can’t be fertilized. 

The Man tells me I’m crazy when I have feelings that can’t be dressed in nude skin and an apron. That my feelings are some enraged bear that claws at honey combs with ferocity at my tiny bear brain but what he fails to see is that the honey comb is something sweet and he is something rotten.

 The Man tells me feelings belong in a bathroom in a bar with inky eyeliner running down my face and a tight dress askew from the man that groped me. The Man tells me he loves me. He loves me and all I can see is the Beast who confuses Beauty while he terrifies her into submission. 

The Man is a beast. 

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