They tell me her tears are not real.
And neither were the bruises,
And neither were the pinch marks,
And neither are the mornings when
she cries don’t make me go.
And neither are the afternoons when
she jumps into the car and says
just drive mommy just drive
And they tell me it’s not real
that my eyes were lying to me
that i couldn’t have seen the smirk on his face
that i couldn’t have heard the brut in his voice
that i couldn’t have smelled the raw power
—-on his pale skin
that i couldn’t have seen his parents demure
at his aggressive gait, at his world is mine strut
at the very notion that for him the word no
does not exist.
And what do we teach our daughters and our sons
When we’ve told them all their lives to stand steadfast
As we fall into the abyss, the whiteness of everything
is okay; nothing is wrong, let’s be friends
when all the while my daughter watches
as they attempt to bloodlet
assimilate our spirits dry.