The Rapist Of My Dreams

How funny it is,
That the rapist of my dreams says he liked me better when I was motherly,
When I was "normal," pliant, the image of calm,
And he thought it would work out between him and me.
But my gut knew better, even then it whispered—NEVER.

You say I showed my true colours as if I should have stayed muted,
But when I spoke the way you always did,
When I echoed the careless way you’d talk about women,
Suddenly I became a list of colorful adjectives you could hurl my way.

You say I was strong and level-headed once,
And I still am—more than you’ll ever be.
But you, who put me in life-threatening situations,
You, who made me hate my own body, its functions, its needs,
Does that make you wise, educated, "the man"?

Even then, I could see you weren't in love with me—just infatuated,
Like every other guy, I rejected them, not out of ego, but for their lack of depth.
You were no different; you were just another shallow face in the crowd.
The only reason you could get away with all you did
It is because I suffer from martyr syndrome.

A man who learned about women’s bodies from porn,
Who tried to teach me the anatomy and emotions I live with daily.
Did you really go to school and study, or did you just lust over girls
And follow what your friends told you to do?
Now you tell me those same uneducated fools call me crazy and hysterical?

Is that what they teach in your home—how to degrade a woman with ease?
Please, I know more than you could ever imagine.
You’ve memorized facts to gain power, money, political favours,
But I’ve lived principles, and breathed ethics, through and through.

Do you think I said yes to you because you were the "IT" man?
No, I saw you then for what you truly are—
An egoistic, misogynistic, man-child,
Desperate for validation, needing to bring a woman down to feel tall.

I put up with you not for love, but because I believed in helping,
Because I thought there might be something human in you.
But stories of you—your cruelty, your selfishness—came from more than one source.
You’ve never been kind to people, never cared without looking for a gain.

And you think you’re a good guy?
You judge me by my size, my body, my voice,
Yet you admitted you’re not a leader, just a follower,
And you think I’d follow someone like you, and make foolish choices because you "charmed" me?

No, the only delusion here is your own.
You never charmed me; you disgusted me.
And now, if you truly think I was the one enthralled,
Then you’re still as clueless as you’ve always been.

Comments

My Tips Get The Job Done

Boy, you need gold coins and chains, To feel that silky touch. Honey, being with you meant My soul needed a retouch... You might like maple syrup, But I could never build anything with that softwood. It was like babysitting way into my adulthood... You think your presence made it feel like Niagara? Boy, it was drier than the Sahara. Who gave you the license to operate heavy machinery? You never deserved to be anywhere near this sanctuary. Asking women to "blow" you a kiss, When you are the one too "slow" to catch up, And all you are good for is a diss... You need to work because you don't know how real FORCE works. You get high on your stupid WARS — How would you ever know the language of the STARS ? Isn't it funny you were trying to teach me about fingers? When I can get myself to sing more with my ladyfingers ...

Game Of Fire and Ice

Hey Mister, Why won't you play a game of Twister? I promise I won't play coy. Won't you love it if I were your only toy? You can be the Lion in the boardroom, Then make me roar in the bedroom. Let's play the game of fire and ice. You bring the sugar, and I get the spice. I am praying by myself these nights, Drowning my moans when the city sleeps tight. We can play the game of Super Sonic, And then have our own race over some gin and tonic. So find me, like an app can find a phone. No, I won't bring out my Medusa and turn you into stone. I have been getting over my fears, Learned to make my tears into spears. You can take me as you like. We can go until we hear the third strike.

Call Your Wife... Call Your Mother...

Call your wife. Call your mother. Tell them how you talk to women like me when no one's watching— But of course, I'm the Outspoken B tch*, and you, the Outstanding Gentleman in your suit and tie. But sure— I’d rather be outclass than be hung like sea bass on your trophy wall, smiling silent while you call me “crass.” Your twisted kinks. Your polished lies. You think I won’t roar? That I’ll tuck in my shadow just to keep your sin safe? I own my dark. Loud. Proud. You will not cage me with your guilt-laced chains. If you were so happy choosing her over me, Then go flirt with her . Not me. Don’t you dare come here with your diluted apologies and leftover lust. I’d rather be The villain in your story Than your sidepiece in silence. Because I remember— You were a playboy then , You’re still a playboy now , And every time you smile and say “We’re still friends”… God, I puke a little. You know your name. Don’t play lost boy. Don’t hide behind your “Good intentions.” I used to care...

Cruising Alone

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