Dear daughter,
if you’ve inherited my heart
then don’t be ashamed
of how desperate you sometimes feel
or how you stain sheets and shirts
that you are sopping wet
a walking hemorrhage
curious hands in the shower
the first menses of a young girl
a virgin writhing on a bed
you are on fire
you are like your mother.
So how could I ever talk about sin or damnation
when you have legs like creaking doors?
you welcome ghosts home
so I know you will know hell intimately
men who like to punch women in the face
who tongue kiss girls who look like their mother
men who hold you down, face in the mattress.
Daughter with a soft body
the hardest ones will fall for you
and you will usher them in
seek out their sharp edges
the abrasion
and by the time they’ve finished
you will be bloody and sore
teeth marks on your thighs
your torso a burnt house of worship.
Habibti, you do not deserve it but
you will be loved in fragments and fractions
until you no longer look like yourself
until your mouth is just the shape of his quiet name
oh my little girl
rip him out of your body
you come from a long line of women;
Hawa who doused herself in petrol
Ayan who pulled out her own teeth
Khadija who fell asleep in the river
forgetting is the hardest thing in the world,
remember that.
– Warsan Shire
MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO 
Yeah well my therapist may need to be called after reading that one!
Friggin wordidge with a heavy slam of meaning, much respect
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I wonder what those who were there at the very scene do afterwards. I can only speak for myself.
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I cleared up the mess, locked the doors and double checked and got her the hell out of Dodge for two days after checking she was ok and didn’t need medical attention
Then fantasized about what I would do if the piece of shit turned up and found me!
Then again, walking into crapstorms is my life so as much as I miss feeling anything these days, sometimes it’s a blessing
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I still suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.
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He sought to control
To make flesh his puppet
A strangle hold on her throat
Her mouth his speaker
A silent grip to withhold her freedom
She wrapped with care
The ribbon of submissive nature
To his will she bent as and when requested
As he pulled her strings with controlling menace
Till she tightened the ribbon
His neck it’s smothered target
The blade from the kitchen
To create the food he demanded
To bleed his power
A red mess created
Juries be damned and the law’s condemnation
Now hollow echoes
As her plan reached fruition
The plan that vengeance demanded
When they found her drinking in silence
The body only a short distance
From the smiling vixen
The very picture of sin
As another excuse of a man
She enjoyed making her victim
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One for the wall.
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Then count me as a ear to bend if ever you need it, the dull and dented armour I wear for such occasions still fits (even if the shine wore off a long time ago!)
And warning; the thing I call a ‘sense of humour’ can occasionally cause offence, whether intended or not?!
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I’ll keep that mind. And about the humor, likewise.
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