Caged: A Poem.

1.

Textured grey layers, thick and woollen. Must be opaque.

Criss-crossed over tightly, to guard the hallowed chamber; secret, sacred.

Must obey and serve thy father. A long draping hem for further protection;

sweaty clasped hands, tiny trembling fingers. Look down. Cover up.

Footsteps, sniggers and shadows of little boys’ patter and hurry by;

permitted to leer at, lust after and attempt to tickle

what the possessors are told is shameful.

Subliminal whispers. Satan’s little angelic helpers.

The cross burns, instead of soothing. Old. Sleazy, slimy.

A thought implanted like fungus, seeping through the brain

like cancer; from the moment we leave the womb.

11.

A panther stalks its young prey. Glossy dark fur so black

its almost blue; light unable to escape its greasy coat.

A white lioness nurses her cubs, pristine snow. Pure.

The predator’s limbs licked thick with masculine muscle,

murky shoulders slink as he crawls closer. Licking lips.

Void of conscience and honour; a grim monster. Beast.

Bared shrill teeth. Justified by hunger. He pounces.

With greater strength, he will overpower.

III.

Wet musky heat radiates from the brother, he slabbers

like a dog. He pushes and nips his little sister’s delicate hips,

teasing her for their widening. She clutches her china

doll to her tender budding chest; a tear rolls.

Her skin is ashen, pale and icy cold. So fragile she must

shield it from cracking around the edges, down the seams.

Brother grabs porcelain baby with large clumsy hands,

snapping dolly’s legs apart and off her infant body

with the ease of breaking a twig in autumn.

The china crumbles to dust.

Sadist. He was only playing.

IV.

“Never go out alone at night,” they teach.

The beasts growl and skulk between alleyways,

behind vegetation to conceal their hideous bulk.

“Fight back. Kick, punch, scratch, spit! Spread your DNA!

Shout ‘fire!’ Use your whistle. Close your eyes. Wait it out.”

They consider it their birth right. Creatures.

Deformed, afflicted but in mind, not form.

Their senses tailored for the scent of tears and alcohol.

Nostrils flare, ears upright, pupils dilate. They are vampires.

Forcing themselves on their prey; they blame the appearance.

Protruding, pulsating veins jump from tensed arms and fists.

Struggle, now scarred. They secrete their oozing poison.

Their venom tarnishes the soul but keeps the hollow vessel alive,

plagued with seeming immortality; a ghost.

While one is molested, another is tucked into bed.

She gazes from her window at the stars

and dreams of a world with no fear for us.

No ridicule or blame for us.

We are doing it all wrong.

“Girls are never safe,” they continue to warn.