I Ain’t Talking

When you can’t talk, write poetry.

I Ain’t Talking

by Lili Bee 9-15-11

 

It doesn’t fucking matter.

Nothing I can say will sway you.

I don’t even want to.

You think I’m gonna stand here and tell you

what a supremely bad idea it is

to take what isn’t given freely?

Recite the stats and watch you gasp?

Fuck that. You know them already.

Or you don’t, but you know they’re not good.

Got that right.

I’m not telling you shit about this one.

About the privileged frat boys who get off the hook

For things the other boys hang for.

You know all the tricks and who gets what, off of whom

and how much it happens.

So stop looking at me

like you want it to be different-

and I’m supposed to contribute

my gifts, my words, my insights

to open up a dialogue. But

“Di” means two-way and

“Logos” means words,

and that two-way assumes equal power

which there ain’t none of in rape

or the culture which breeds it,

not even on a philosophical level.

So, until you can show you’re listening,

there’s no point in dialogue.

Cause it ain’t gonna happen.

You have to hit your own damn bottom on this one.

Find out yourself

and then you’ll know, ’cause

if the action’s okay happening

to your daughter,

your sister, your wife,

it’s probably not rape-

and if you’re not sure, you’re probably too far gone

and I can’t help you anyway.

I hit the basement a long time ago

and stopped feeling anything anymore

like where my own body ended and a man’s began, from too many times

when I tried to say no

and the one standing before me

or sneaking up behind me

magically grew a thick wad of cotton in his ears just then.

Amazing, how that happens

and the quick slide down till you hate your own skin.

Date rape?

Check.

Group pass around the drunk babe?

Check.

Knife at the throat in a seedy drug den?

Check.

Locked in an abandoned motel, in a car, an office, in the darkroom of 7^th grade photography class by my teacher?

Check, check, check. And check.

Wasted  on Fire Island, Sunday afternoon Tea Dance at The Monster

dancing in my bikini in my delirium in my joy

in my suntanned celebrating sublime drug-filled euphoria

Just asking for it, right?

Got it, too:
Thrown up against a ladies’ room stall door when I ducked in to pee,

forcing her big butch body against mine and then her tongue

down my throat-

groping my breasts, pinching my nipples so hard one of them bled.

Two hundred twenty pounds of unknown flesh pinning  my hundred ten pound frame

grinding me against a filthy bathroom stall door

choking me with her thick tongue

till I puked in her mouth.

You can see in my eyes all what’s been stolen and

you still won’t turn off the porn.

When I cry about sex + violence and all it begets

“I can separate it” is all you say

Yeah. And I’m Mary Fucking Poppins.

Sorry you don’t like me angry.

But-

Fuck off.

Hit your own damn bottom.

Maybe then you’ll be ready to play connect-the-dots

with your body and your heart and maybe even hers

Or find yourself one morning,

the umpteenth morning after having gotten over

on some unsuspecting chick,

but hey, she kinda sorta wanted it too, right?

‘Cause that’s what porn taught you-

Hungry horny bitches

they all want it, they’re just playin’

like they don’t.

And you’ll wake up

to hollow eyes, devoid of life

looking back at you in the mirror

like it happened to me:

Spent, by 24, like the allowance I used to get every week

when I was young and still alive

when allowance was for candy

Sucking pixie stix powder from their paper straws

tickling my tongue on the steps of our beach house

when I was young and still alive

♦◊♦

Lili wrote this piece in response to being asked if there was something she could contribute to the topic of rape/ sexual violence.

Dedicating this piece to rape/ sexual violence victims everywhere, who might never be given an opportunity to express their feelings of loss, this free verse is her response, her contribution. It was written to encourage reflection.

In South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Act, amazing healing occurred when victims were allowed to speak their grief without needing to listen to responses.

Lili will not be reading or responding to comments left here, but as ever, please feel free to leave them for your own discussions.

She can be e-mailed at: Lili@PoSARC.com

♦◊♦

art: whatmegsaid / Flickr