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To the rogue lions
that chose the wild
and for River (Vita),
my lioness,
for leading me back
to the pride.
I know hopeit is in spite of all I know of men or death or me.
Erica Jong
At the Edge of the Body
I AM A LIONESS running out of lives. I need the fingers from both hands now to count how many times Ive died, and almost all have been at the teeth of lions. But not one hurt more than not being protected by one of my own.
A lioness forced to fight lions as a cub survives only by becoming a lion herselfbecoming to herself the father she wished shed had to protect her. But slowly, as time passes and healing begins, her survival-mane starts to fall out one strand of hair at a time as she learns to shed her aggression, her fight, her masculinity, her lion, to live again as the lioness she was born to be. Learning that her softness is not weakness. Learning to make love again, not war, and knowing the difference.
Im afraid I have attracted
more moths than flowers with this light.
They tell me
Im being paranoid
but I am convinced
a woman gave me life
and men
have been trying
to kill me
ever since.
They tell me
I am beautiful
then stand there
waiting
as though
it owes them
something.
When you look like a kill,
all Bambi legs
and deer-in-the-headlights stare,
you look like youre game
whether you are
ready
or not.
I am like a coin
they flip
from my back
to my stomach.
On one side
I am love,
the other
I am war.
It was like
looking at the sea
and being told
it was green
the way they
wrapped up hate
in pretty paper
and called it
love.
I look in the mirror
armed with my soldiers
of lipstick and mascara
with only one mission
in mind:
How to look less dead.
I think back sometimes
to those boys at school
I let them put their hands up my skirt
for a cheap thrill
while I chewed gum
and looked the other way
like it was no big deal
because I was dying at home
and truth be told
all those boys at school
with a spare fifteen minutes
to hold me, saved me.
I pop men
like pills
to make me happy,
but they all
wear off
in the end.
You didnt owe me
anything more
because I took off
my clothes for you,
but I need you to know
that you didnt owe me
any less either.
Those same fingers that
stroked me tenderly in the
night, from my neck down to
the small of my back, are
pulling me apart this
morning. In a frantic witch
hunt through the dark
forest of my bones; firing
arrows into the soft, fleshy
meat of my heart, where he
wants to cut out all the men
that came before him; his
palm, open and waiting, is
demanding I spit out their
names like apple seeds.
Who were they? How many?
His hands wave at my chest,
searching for the guest
book.
Who came before you? I repeat,
taking one step forward,
unflinching, my eyes cold
and hard like bullets and
shoot him down. Love did.
You shift in your seat
to get comfortable.
I shift in my skin.
Please dont tell me we are the same.
Men hurt me before I had the chance to love one.
I spent hours
on my knees
as a child
making dollhouses
out of cardboard boxes
gluing together
scraps of cloth
to make blankets
to keep them warm
and not once
did I make one
of my dolls cry
or make one scared
to fall asleep
in her own bed
dont tell me I was
too young to know
any different.
I was born with
the meaning of home
running through
my veins.
You are not
a child anymore.
You should know better
than to pull
a woman apart
just to see how she works.
I was peace
and you brought war.
Id never had a man
call it love before.
Sometimes we are just the collateral damage
in someone elses war against themselves.
We are the ones who found
more peace in the wild
fugitive lionesses
roaming without prides
tough and beaten
not scared of the streets
not when we felt
that much fear at home.
I couldnt tell you the names
of everyone Ive loved
they are a blur of giddiness
but I could pick out
the face of every single
person whos hurt me
in a lineup.
It wasnt until I could
read my own fairytales
that I knew my mother
had been lying.
I know shed edited out
that big bad wolf.
Loving you became just
a different way to hate myself.
You told me
you would protect me
always
not understanding
that mostly
it would mean
protecting me
from you.
Ive been bitten too many times
by the men with golden tongues
hissing pretty words in my ear
like snakes
urging me to take a bite
but I have lost my appetite
for Adams apple
a throat
bulging with tiny
black seeds of cyanide
like lies
not even he
can swallow.
I lost myself in men
like they were the ocean
and I was adrift.
That is what happens
when a siren loses
her voice.
To live life through the flesh
is to submit to the hunter.
For my final trick
I show you my skin
and watch you
disappear
by morning.
I like to keep my darkness close
