Wanton Hussy - Column for 6/24

Poems to Spite Ra

I hear Your words come out My mouth,
Your stubbornness sets My jaw,
Your inflexibility - no yielding, no compromise -
Straightens My spine and strengthens My will.

At 13 I started diaries in earnest
So I would never forget how unjust You were.
Nearing 30, those preteen pages make so much more sense
From Your side than Mine.

You were the enemy I could not win against,
The argument with no last word.
In My head Your voice was so critical and so harsh,
Demanding perfection.
I see now that it wasn't Your voice but My own.
It was You I wanted to be perfect for,
Not knowing that perfection is an idea,
Not a thing to be attained.

At 13 I swore on all I held holy
That I would never be like You.
Nearing 30, I see that I am already much like You.
Like the person that You actually are,
Not like the Mother in My head.

I hear Your words come out My mouth,
Your stubbornness sets My jaw,
Your inflexibility-no yielding, no compromise-
Straightens My spine and strengthens My will.

I am becoming You
As I become Me.

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The blood of my ancestors flows between my legs.
It is true.
My mother and my grandmother
and my great-grandmother
are all that I have known,
but my great-grandmother's mother and her mother before her
and my father's mother and his grandmother
and great-grandmother
have contributed to my blood as well.
A line of women on both sides of my family tree,
young and old, fair and tan, fat and thin,
all mothers.
Across the years and countries,
from the Wild West to the Midwest farms
to the crossing of the Atlantic,
back to England and Portugal and Germany
and places and times forgotten.
But I know. My blood knows.
Every month I whisper to my womb, "Soon, soon,"
hoping I have enough time left
(enough of my ancestral blood left),
to let this month's blood flow quietly,
until one day the tide is briefly stemmed
and I take my place in the long lines of Ancestors
and see my own daughter's legs
wet with the blood of our Ancestors.

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Pounding rhythmically into the ache,
Time spiraling deliciously.
Deep soft whispers,
"I want to make you scream."
Towers silently, violently shake and fall
As millions watch, screaming.
Pain and loss too deep to cover
With ecstasy or madness.

Shame is a familiar garment
Whose pain softly shrouds me,
Swallowing deep.
Cremated velvet robes
That can make even a skeleton seem voluptuous,
Revulsion and disgust like delicious flavors of pleasure.

When you want what you hate,
And hate what you want,
The devils of truth steal the souls of the free.

The truth does not set you free,
But ensnares you more surely than lies.

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Give it to me, the taste of the blows across my back like spices. More, more, like a spoilt, greedy child. No matter how much you give, it's not enough to fill me, not enough to make me forget, even after the longest best orgasm, there's always a moment of rationality, and then I need more, over and over and over please, I beg you, fuck me forever until I can't think at all, can't ever come back from oblivion or down from my high. I don't want to come back or down. Push me off the top and let me dive dying to the ground.

It isn't fair that I can't fuck you as deep and hard and thoroughly as I want you to fuck me. Not fair. But probably safer.

Definitely safer.

Columns by Wanton Hussy