Wrath of a Patriarch Not of My Choosing

How do you tell your lover, the one that is
light, air, the ether of comfort around

you about that scandal riddled slanderous

world which visits you when he’s not
gazing? This human flesh has

suffered so much maligning male matters.

How can your lover, your children, loved ones
hear of the violation triggered by the things

which make this lithe form’s little beauty? That

sometimes, I hate my own stunning light, my radiant
glow, my own mystique, because all that disdains

me. Is it understandable that sometimes

that thing you elected to love, to trust
in the end cares nothing for you. It just wanted

you ruined. There is a chance that they could see

me as a shattered pot mended by precision: Japanese golden
seams—kintsugi—the cracks become a unifying aesthetic

thread making a spectacular shimmer: speaking to breakage

then repair as becoming part of the history of me
rather than something to disguise out of disgust. Is it possible

to forgive a rapist for wanting take a beautifully broken

thing? Did he just help make it a more beautiful thing?
Or is it something else entirely incomprehensible?



  1. This makes me think about how victims sometimes need to justify the actions of the abuser…a thought provoking write.

  2. Reblogged this on disdainfulbeauty.

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