He doesn't hear me right now.
Too busy playing games,
The ones more entertaining than me.
He doesn't look at me,
Doesn't speak, doesn't listen, doesn't care.

I know I am useless,
He drilled it into me from day one.
My words mean nothing to him.
I have stupid hobbies, stupid wants.
Nothing about me is worthy of him.

I look down at myself.
I know what gets his attention,
My dignity drops along with my pants.
He looks at me for the first time in days.
I am finally spoken to.

His words slice me.
He calls me what I am: disgusting,
Desperate, useless, horrible.
But most importantly: I am his.
I am nothing without his approval.

But at the same time he worships me.
The only approval I've gotten,
Only when I am exposed in front of him.
My only worth is my body parts,
The ones I so desperately hate.

He does what he wants,
I have no choice but to let him.
I have no one else who sees me.
Even if he only sees me for what I am;
a tool for his enjoyment.

I am rotting beneath this house,
Under the floorboards lies my form.
Pieces strewn around recklessly,
The walls, the attic, the garage.

I feel the maggots over my fragmented body.
They chew at the regrowing flesh.
Preventing me from stirring,
At least enough to push them off.

I try to reform my flesh back into a heap,
But the maggots tear me back apart.
I hear their whispers against my bones,
It was not tasty, not filling, not enough.

Yet they wont let me leave.
Only allowing me to sit still in silence,
Being devoured,
Devoured by the growing hoard of maggots.

This dreadful old woman yells on her phone,
All her hate echoing through her trailer.
Nothing is enough for her high "standards."
Always too little or too much talking.

She laughs a rancid, wheezy laugh,
Poking fun at the less fortunate and disabled.
Slurs are a part of her daily vocabulary,
Towards others, towards her own grandchild.

Despite being a woman she hates them,
Wishes they would stay home, out of her way.
"Women shouldn't drive, shouldn't lead, shouldn't..shouldn't..."
She sees herself exempt from those rules.

She lounges on her couch,
Scrolling on her one-of-many smart phones,
Insulting others for even daring to look at a screen,
While the small blue screen lights her wrinkles.

Lies and hate blast from the TV,
All are pale privileged men full of hate,
The only ones she listens to.
They preach their superiority over all.

She loosely holds her vape,
Between her rough and bony fingers.
Somehow convinced it's not smoking.
While vapors surround her and cloud the air.

Anyone and everyone different is her enemy,
You must be a white, Christian,
Republican, straight, cis, able bodied,
Citizen to gain any respect from this wretched woman.

The truth is only what she likes,
Only what she agrees with.
She closes her ears to logic and empathy,
She feeds on the hate of those like her.

I do not like my grandmother.

I have never heard a love song
That reminded me of you.
No words can describe your love,
Your eyes, your smile, your laugh.

They write these love songs,
Ones that never describe us well.
Always a man and a woman,
Usually nothing that we feel.

I want to write a love song,
One about only us.
To paint what we have,
A picture beyond human imagination.

I can't write a love song
That does you justice.
You are far too beautiful for words,
And too breath-taking for music.

A love song for you would be impossible,
You are too lovely for words.
Even in poems I am stuck,
Rambling about you, but never enough.

Oh how I dream of us.
I imagine you purely you,
Among your dreams
And among mine.
You, my muse.
Me, yours.
How artful would it be?

I picture you entirely,
Captured still in photos,
In paintings, in sculptures.
I, in your writing,
In fabric, in drawings.
You are my art,
I am yours.

Today was harder than usual.
As I sit surrounded by friends,
My descent into hell begins.
It starts at the base of my bony spine,
"Nothing more than a sting,"
I say. "Nothing more.."

The burning pain crawls higher,
A wildfire spreads up the mountain of my ribs.
"Just a sting, its just a sting.."
I feel my body sink into the seat,
My head drooping to the table.

Burning tears form in my eyes,
Rusted razors crowd my throat,
As the searing pain burns through my body.
I heave and shake,
My friends heads turn.

I can't move a muscle,
At least no more than a twitch.
My friends call my name,
pat my back,
try to get a response.

I can't hear a word,
But my ears crackle and burst.
My heartbeat slams my rib cage,
In an attempt to escape.
It is too late.

Groans escape me,
I claw the desk with my trembling hands.
The wildfire spreads,
Hips, chest, shoulders, neck, head.
My mind scratches the walls of my skull,
Trying to find an way out.

I hold the papers in front of me,
Now soaked with tears,
Trying to grab hold of anything.
Anything that will pull me out
of the wildfire in my bones.

The way you held me hurt
In ways I can't describe.
You tore my arms, legs, back,
The rips growing deeper
With each **** meeting.
You stared at the tears in my skin,
Proud of yourself, aroused.
You scraped your claws over them,
Pulling them wider, prettier.
You pleased yourself, admiring your work.
I was perfect for you.
Sitting still and letting you disfigure me,
My body was not mine.
I was yours, signature and all,
Deep etchings in my skin
The same etchings I carve off,
only to grow them back.
You made me carve your name,
Over, and over, and over.
My fingers dull and numb,
Digging deeper for you to see,
For you to admire.
Though I was never enough.
Not close to satisfying your hunger.
Never a day passed
Where I would not dread seeing you.