Misogyny (Unmasked)

Will somebody hold me down?

Like a clown, talk of the town I have become—

Recruiting and sacking wives like they're on contract.

Lustful like a bird of prey,

with eagle eyes that do not retract,

yet unforgiving, routine and staid like a bureaucrat.

Find you attractive today,

and unsightly the next.

An unconfirmed bipolar,

yet I claim to be aristocrat.

Stilted and fastidious,

banished your sister like an autocrat.

She should have read the signs:

Conversations like minutes to a formal meeting,

like a wife to her own father,

her wits like poetry to a retard,

her looks like a female naked body to a eunuch,

her efforts like seeds on rock.

And I—

a desert to her sexual thirst,

oxygen and food to her emotional cyst,

torture and abuse to her body and brain.

A stranger to his own children.

The penis behind her broken hymen.

An obstacle to her unrealised dreams.

The coffin,

the casket to her cold body.

And we—

doomed from the start.

Like O.J. Simpson and Nicole,

like J.F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe,

like Oscar Pistorius and Reeva,

like Learnmore Jongwe and Rutendo—

ending violently like a game on Nintendo.

With each stab,

my unquenchable thirst for blood grows more and more,

all in this simpleton’s quest for control,

reliant on a justice system that is flawed.

Oh, how your sister dreaded death.

Oh, how she feared it!

Death to her was the equivalent

of the blunt imagination

of having the coffin lid

slapped in her face

whilst trapped in a deep slumber.

It was being unable to scream

while gothic, gory, and hideous demonic creatures

with blood dripping from their mouths and teeth

feasted off her flesh—

starting with her mouth and nose.

It was wobbly bugs

burrowing through her perfect, smooth skin in their millions,

invading her.

It was people mourning

over her lifeless body

whilst her spirit hovered in the immediate air.

Death to her was bodily fluids and gases of decay

ballooning up her body until she exploded—

a wrinkled skin garment

loosely fitted on her bones.

Now,

because of me—

because of me—

death has become her.