Why do you write, pretty girl?
Well sit down, let me tell you a tale,
I think that’s quite fitting for this.
What gave you such power with words?
I heard them used as knives once when I was five,
Because I lived in a house of paper.
The sound always bled through the walls.
What made you pick up a pen, pretty thing?
It was closer to me than the knife.
and someone once told me that it won in a fight
Against the Excalibur sword.
I wanted to show him that he couldn’t talk to her like that.
Where are your characters born?
(He thinks female authors are bores).
From the seed of the devil-man,
And the blood of the sow,
On the liquor-stained motel floor.
How can you use such strong words, young lady?
Why, that was all that I ever heard!
You mean to tell me that those weren’t words of love?
That shouts of threats and fat-lady-weight bets
weren’t the matrimonial words of lore?
Why are your poems so miserably sad?
You’re telling me that’s not life?
That there’s love in this world for a wife?
That not every mistake should lead to a burn at the stake
and that this kind of sharp is abnormal?
Why don’t you want to get married, my queen?
If that’s what it is I don’t want it,
If it’s gritted teeth
and hate-filled screams,
and the tossing of rings
in the muddy streets,
then–Don’t Touch Me with that Left Hand
Why do you reach for your pen now, sweet thing?
Because you seem, Sir, to miss the fat point.
Let me write you the truth as I’ve seen it, Mister.
The fire, the burn, and the blister.
Let me show you what lived with me in my house of cards.
The virgins, the slaves, and the bards.
Let me show you what it’s like to be bruised
Without the touch of a hand.
Let me show you what fear’s like
ON MY COMMAND
GOD, YOU STUPIDFATUGLYPOORMAN
WHY ARE YOU CRYING,
I’LL GIVE YOU A REASON
SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I’M LEAVING
next day’s headline
The words that she learned
Came from hate-fire’s burn,
And she’s forgotten what love looks like.
Her women all die
because late in the night
Those were the blades thrown at mother.