"I'm sorry" - Poem 9.16.19
“I’m sorry”
By: Alivia Moe
“I’m sorry”
“I’m sorry”
Solidarities regret
Reeking from the hands
Of a man
That man
His hand
Imprinted on my cheek
Red
Stinging
The ringing in my ear
Eyes boiling withheld tears and Stomach clumped fears
“I’m sorry”
“I’m sorry”
I hear
The problem with slaps, like snaps
They fade
Red fades flushed
Sting turned stung
He must have thought my face,
a drum
Nerveless
Nervous, begging to be beaten
With the hand
That hand
Written on this page
I retreat in
Maybe it helped he didn’t know me
Besides the
Roundness
Slip-dress(ed)
Softness
Of this body
Maybe that man
That hand
Felt the grind of my teeth
The way he sought out the grind
Of this body
“I’m sorry”
You know, drums
They hum
Hollow and heavy
Quarreled misogyny
Full, its belly
That hum a moan
The sound he hopes to hear
if he gets me alone
Thinking this body
is something he owns
My bruised cheek?
A milestone
To men thinking they’re grown
Their mark, my bruise
Making me think
I have nothing to lose
That my life is a loan
Because I lack testosterone
Sit back baby boy
Squirm in that chair
Frustrated you will never be blown
By me
Yes, me
I’mmm sorrryyyyyy
I’m sorry
The imprint of his hand
That hand
That man
Remains tender to the right
Of my left eye
A pea sized reminder, a pressure point
An unnoticed, shy girls tongue tie
In between fluorescent sound,
warped clouds of goblins, calm and undefined
I catch myself
Digging deeper, my pointer finger
Just to hear myself whimper
To feel something
To feel my blood pumping
Blood pumped blue
Dig turned dug
Numb, a hum
I should have known my bruise,
Bubble gum
Stuck on the bottom of his shoe
maybe gulped maybe chewed
A flavorful feud
Salivating gremlins, sweeter than most
Blown up to the size of lemons
Only popped in a matter of seconds
Oops!
Im sorry!
It’s the “I’m sorry”
I’m sorry, I don’t understand
You were quick with that hand
And quicker to use words I know to well
As a way to disband
It must be too much to ask
To hope that man,
that men
His hand
unlearns the pedestal of which he stands
Left out to rot
The relationship between fruit and fly
Supposedly sweeter the more we bruise
Carrying Swarms of abuse
Trying to chew the little word why
“Maybe it would help to be heard”
Trust me, I’ve tried
Mama hear me
Plant seeds of trees in my name
Nor you or Papa are to blame
Lifted glass of unsweetened iced tea
Ringlets on wood, green eyes
Beastly
Buggeyed and unsatisfied
Living to be buried
Tell me again
I know you love me dearly
Remind me of all the reasons why
I just need time to drip-dry
I just
I must
I must learn to get by
Im sorry