Sliding hands in forbidden places.
A bribe too low for my worth,
even when I didn’t understand the weight
of a dollar.
Talk about it.
Those lingering eyes on a bosom
too young, too close.
Lick, sigh, smile.
Hello, princess.
Talk about it.
The poke and prod
creating bellyaches claimed unwanted.
Thin yourself and bring yourself
I want you whole,
my baby girl.
Talk about
how delicious I am
with skin gleaming,
unstretched.
Talk about how far you travelled to taste me,
how hard you worked to face me,
how long you wanted to graze me.
And is it worth it?
When my lips exhale in shock because
the hand around my neck
was too sudden.
When I want to fear the look in your eyes but I tell myself
I deserved it.
When you push me away only to yank me closer
by my hair and I
oblige.
Talk about it.
The inching of the darkness that you
called over.
Because you thought the dark meant good.
The flame burning in your heart
that you never let out.
The cry of the righteous woman
wronged,
that you don’t even recognize.
Talk about her.
Melody Mastache is a young writer from Toronto with Mexican heritage. She began writing poetry as a therapeutic exercise that took a life of its own. Consequently, her writing is based on her personal struggles with trauma, racism, sexism, and family history. She claims that writing poetry has helped her have conversations that needed to be had, but couldn’t be had with anyone but herself. Though her poetry is essentially pages out of her journal, she pushes herself to share it in the hopes of reaching someone who is looking for experiences like hers to connect with. As Frida Kahlo expressed: “I hope that if you are out there and you read this, know that, yes, it’s true: I am here; I’m just as strange as you.” (Melody would like to note that the common English translation of this quote is strange as well, so she translated it herself.)