When I turn right, he turns right
When I turn left, he corresponds
I turn to look behind me
And he is lurking in the shadows
I ignore the signs and carry on my way
As I approach a dark alley,
I am stopped.
Someone to help me on my way.
After all, I am but a helpless woman
Who cannot take care of herself
Who needs a man to battle the daily strife
Who cannot go on down this alley
Without the help of a random stranger
Unsure of where to turn
He turns his hand at that which he sees as helpless
His misogynistic outlook has tainted his perception of reality
She can take care of herself
He lends his hand when he can
Blind to the devastation caused by his hand,
She accepts, although little in need.
He has seen her before
Noticed her movements
Taken a mental note of her mannerisms
All to comprehend an understanding so deluded
That not one other person could foresee the downfall.
He made a mistake.
She took him for all he was worth
The worthless piece of human
Finally came to be adapted
To his new life
Incarcerated. Her, free.
About the Creator
MaxwellJBanks
I am but a struggling poet with much to say, and an outlet that will make your day.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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