Previous Feature: Kristin Garth
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. She used to strip in a schoolgirl outfit, and now writes sonnets about that amongst other fun and terrible things. Her poetry has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Infernal Ink, Moonchild Magazine, Occulum, Quail Bell Magazine, and many other fine publications. You can read more of her poetry—posted almost daily—on Medium, and follow her on Twitter @lolaandjolie.
“How do you know if you’ve been good?” He will
not touch me even though he could. He asks
this question like a father would, to fill
a space in me he knows he should. His task
to teach in ways he’s done before, but just
with words this time and nothing more. Response
comes easy: “Men like you,” who license lust,
approve all that I do. You see it haunts
me that I have to please. You long to lift
me off my knees. Words you wield to break a spell:
“I want to see you selfish,” parting gift
delivered from the lips that knew me well.
A man who took and teaches me to take,
still calls me good girl though he has no stake.
A friend you make by accident—because
he tears you down, you chase his whip. You kneel
the way you do for all of them. He does
not take your common currency. You feel
abandoned here beneath him on the ground.
You hide your eyes and wait for him to go.
He will, you know; a man requires his pound
of flesh. It’s what you have to give or so
your maker taught, across his lap, just shy
of five. He taught it with his belt and hands
in places you cannot forget. It’s why
this one will stay, not touch or make demands.
He’s what you found while looking for an end;
a man, but more an accidental friend.
You wake to arms behind you, blindfold tight,
a mind like melted ice cubes. Just one drink?
You’re nude against some concrete. Day or night?
Your head too full of chemicals to think.
A drink that tastes so salty still you sip,
A rush of light and nausea that goes black.
Your mind’s discarded somewhere on the trip,
and then you hear a voice that brings it back.
Remember how you planned this, you and him,
a game that ends in rape and starts with drugs.
Your purchase made this ache replace a whim.
The reason? You’ve forgotten what that was.
The moment you remember it’s not real.
Pretending does not mean you will not feel.
All Hail! To stay apprised of all things Kristin Garth, please visit her blog by clicking on her legs below . . .