I am so used to abuse
I know the consequences when I refuse
I know what lies after I say “no”
Never straying from the script, the events unfold,
A hand around my throat
Knotted like a rope
A struggle for power
I fake a fight for show.
So tell me how
can Touch be a language of love?
When I think of "touch"
I think of a tug, a push, and a pull,
I think of a shove, a crash, and a thud
I think of a strike, so blindingly fast.
I think of bright violet bruises
And dripping red blood that oozes
Onto shattered shards of mirror glass
From touches that signal kneeling
To touches forcing unrequited pleasing
Mechanical and objectified
Pinned down and paralyzed
As locker room talks
Turns to lewd gawks
Prolonged glances
Estimating chances
Brick by brick they lay,
Forming bridges with their gifts, time and compliments,
Employing whichever strategy responds the best,
closer and closer they think they get,
To winning the bet
Who will be the winner who takes me to bed?
They leave no expense
To sound their sincerest
To act with chivalry.
When I bait them with lust,
I watch as their pretension turns to dust.
There is no warmth in their touch.
There is no heart in my ruse,
We’re all liars with a common pursuit.
But no one will call out my bluff,
When I condemn the different languages of love.
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