Poetry

Leave.

Leave.

The moment you see his love dripping on someone else’s hands, leave.

This is no competition, he’s not trophy, there’s no point in starting a war for a coward of a man who cheats.

Leave.

Leave.

Leave.

I cannot stress this enough but it’s not his love that’s running through your veins, darling, it’s the poison that he has been giving you since day one, since the day he decided to sleep with someone else at night while singing songs of love in your ears during the day.

Leave.

Leave.

Leave.

Before you start to accept the moans of someone else as your own, before you start believing the smell of that unfamiliar perfume on his shirt is yours, before you lose the very little amount of sanity that you hold.

Leave.

Because trying to remove the toxin out of someone so toxic may lead to your own mayhem.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Whore”

I was only 9 years old when I heard the word “whore” for the first time in my life. I never knew what it meant but father was drunk that night and he kept shouting and ponding his fist on the table “whore” he shouts, I was so scared that I didn’t notice he was pointing his finger at me “whore” he sounded so angry I couldn’t move, I saw him making his way towards me tripping and leaning on the wall to keep his balance “whore” you’re scaring me father please don’t touch me there, you’re making me uncomfortable “whore” his eye looked inhuman, full of rage “whore” he shouts “just like your mother” his hands were under my nightgown, what is he doing? please make it stop it hurts.

“Whore”

The word keeps ringing in my head like a bell. Mother told me when a girl bleeds from down there it means she’s grown up. But why does it hurt so bad? Is this how girls grow up?

“Whore”

The word still rattles in my head like the sound of my mother’s keys, she’s finally home after her night shift, why is she so alarmed to see me? Maybe it’s because I’m still laying on the living room floor just how father left me, unable to move.

“Whore”

The word keeps ringing in my head like the sound of the sirens from the ambulance my mom had called but why is she crying? Mother I grew up, though it felt wrong and I didn’t like it at all. Mother, you never told me that I’ll have to go to hospital and get stitches down there, I don’t like growing up.

“Whore”

The word comes back swarming back into my mind whenever you mention father, telling me that the police got him and that I’m never gonna see him again, I have lost count of the times you’ve apologized to me, mother, please stop crying.

I’m 27 years old now, but even now whenever someone jokingly, or while I’m walking on the street calls me a “whore” it takes me back to day I heard it for the first time.