Of Rapists & Victims: II

Photo credit: @ownherworld

Read the first of the series here.

She walks through,

Roads filled with street signs and scars,

Of graffiti and tattoos on walls,

Sex symbols and misery in red,

RRUUN,

She knows not to stay,

She knows not to become one with the darkness of the night,

She knows not,

Of prostitutes and pimps that turn their hustle into songs,

And force strangers to sing,

9 p.m,

The streetlights flicker,

10,

The silence falls,

Schizophrenic,

Yet the voices go,

The clicks of heels hitting the ground,

Sing me to sleep,
Baby,

1036,

She paces,

Not slick on the gas pedal,

He notices,

Through the rear view mirror,

Through the iris of a sinner,

Through instinct,

He reverses,

Slick on the gas pedal,

She falls,

Legs confused by the pulse of fear,

Legs confused by the head games of her stilettos,

1035,

He steps out of the car,

1036,

His steps are quiet,

1037,

The stillness of lust masquerading as innocence,

1037,

Heavy,
The weight of his presence on her skin,

1037,

Heavy,
She feels undressed by the ghosts of his hands,

Heavy,
She feels herself shaping into the arc of his desire,

And breaking,

Sing me to sleep,

Baby,

Chills of the devil’s voice,

You are one of them now,

You are one of the girls.

Of Rapists & Victims: The First Of Its Series.

Sometimes we forget. That those closest to us are capable of the most heinous acts.

Photo credit: @ownherworld

I.
The hum of her skirt,

Stories of lust sewn in,

He sings along,

Thoughts of skin on skin,

And echoes of her plea,

Melodious,

The subjugation of her will,

Melodious,

The screams of her inching to survive,

Yet moaning to the thrust,

Of him,

She denies the face of the man that robs her,

She denies,

Yet moans?

She denies,

The face of her father,

She gives in,

Because she feels,

That’s the only way,

Out.

Of Black, Children & Vices.

tyronetakawira
photocredit: @artbywak

Colonialism kissed,

The face of the African sun,

Systematic,

The infiltration of the devil’s kiss,

Illusions of colour,

Illusions that blinded,

The hearts of supremacists,

WE ARE CHILDREN,

Dreams of our ancestors,

Silhouettes of their realities,

Our minds cannot conceive of,

Shades of black,

of niggers cut,

blood,

Bath of kaffirs,

The knife that is white privilege,

WE WERE BORN,

98tolife.wordpress.com
photocredit: @creativesoulphoto

With a melanin scarred,

We spite,

The stretch marks on our skin,

Yet poverty sits,

On the roof of our tongues,

Can we afford to speak?

Lineages of men,

That smoked polygamy once,

And forgot to exhale,

Lineages of men,

That skip responsibility with a tempo,

Crescendos of pain,

Crescendos of absence,

Men that leave,

Before daughters utter the word,

Father.

A MOTHER’S VICE,

98tolife.wordpress.com

Chinua demands,

Chinua demands to eat,

Chinua always demands,

His stomach shouts,

Ghosts of his vigor,

Ghosts of his hard work,

His stomach shouts,

Substances of liquor,

Substances of his hard work?

She kneels,

And washes the hand that bruised and battered her,

She kneels,

And feeds the mouth that swallows her name whole,

Before vomiting out another,

Priscilla?

The turn of her insides.

She knows not,

Of the silent messages,

And the loudness of moans,

That aren’t hers,

She knows not,

Of the legs that spread,

On the same bed that holds her secrets,

She knows not,

Of her daughter’s beauty,

Because hers, surely,

Isn’t enough,

She knows not?

She knows,
And justifies,

And kneels.