Love's Fool

He marked his control upon the very lips that give him pleasure and onto the hips that bore his oppression. Scars of whipping words that spewed hatreds precious words into the sky. Pushing down the bile that dare passes my lips. Oh, how he wishes to grab control by twisting his fingers into the depths of my hair, lulling strand by strand until I give up control. He forces my surrender by slamming his words just as hard as he slams me into the wall. Trapping me in every aspect of the word. He pushes his limits of so-called love by silencing my will for freedom through endless wonder of pleasure.  

How simple the word, ‘pleasure’ is with every: 

“Baby I’m sorry I love you” or  

“I’m sorry I won’t do that again” or  

“You know I’m trying, I’m sorry baby” 

As the damn tears flow down his face.  

Luring to open my heart again.  

All for the sake of love! 

How I wished it was easy to stand up tall and tell him STOP! STOP, PLEASE JUST STOP!  

No. No, you cannot tell him stop. Are you kidding?! He will beat you until those words are merely below silence and all he is seeing is the mix of emotions.  

Blood. Sweat. Swelling.  

You don’t dare speak those words because it will only allow the monster to stay alive. It will only allow the beatings to worsen! 

The dragging of his fingers brings pleasure and pain. A sickness that reveals into the depths of lust’s habitat of pure satiating pain that brings pleasure to the hands that delivers it. Confusing the very soul, he had made his victim. The permeating stench of semen, victory and sweat. A disgusting smirk writing the tale of his woman surrender complete control bearing trophy bruises symbolizing his greatest victory, pleasure in absolute submission! Forced submission of body, mind, soul, and spirit! He is no warrior, just an ignorant coward who marked his victim as lover's fool. 

Every fight I have in me is broken down as I speak these words. It is shredded to pieces as if I have a piece of bread and with each beating, I am shredding each piece smaller and smaller. This way I have some sort of fulfillment left. Some sort of identity apart of a woman who gets up every day feeling smaller than the before, a victim, a LOVER’S FOOL.  

-Riane Ashley Cardenas

Published in Flows: A Queer Poetry Journal