i heard a man crunch a woman's spirit today. the process of bklyn desensitizing is a hideous ritual. as a woman. i should clutch my womb and moan for her. but now - i just reach for my cell, breath still even, and dial 911.
we talked about this. how its not always a man's fault. but then - im from a bruised heart. from the hills of a woman's submission. i have been birthed to realize when a blow is coming. how to duck tight and hold still. not that i've had to.
i began to swing first. when the argument heightned and the idea of his hand against my flesh in anything remotely negative swam behind my eyes -- i began throwing punches. tossing furniture - swinging fists into sheetrock. i wasn't prepared for anything that tasted like blood. it never got that far. i always had the hands of a gentleman hold me. even if their hands tasted like other feminine forms -- they never physically abused me. i was lucky.
i am lucky.
we sat in the front seat of his car watching the man kickstart the blood into her chest. he wasn't trying to save her. but the way she flailed her arms in defense, you might've thought differently.
or when i watched him throw another her ontop of the hood of the car by the throat. then pick her up with the same hands that probably loved her hours before and toss her against the concrete. she told him he wasn't shit afterwards. as if those words would cut any deeper than the gravel still stuck against her skull.
or when we walked from a poetry venue in harlem. and the crack addicted couple argued in the middle of the street. we stared like the rest of them. even when he took the women's crutches and bashed her against the head. then carried her off like a neanderthal. the bodega workers laughed together and i stood there. stinging from the pain that must've been hers to hold, feeling like i owed her more than just a witness to her humiliation. it left me feeling like i am not as lucky as i think...