Unfaithful
I have been reduced to… Chattel… a transaction among men. A promise, a wink, a word between equals, rationally reducing my life into nothingness. Stolen thoughts, drought and famine. Nothingness, and the word of a man, of any man, of every man with only his pride before him, his wants, his wife, his life.
This is not how it was supposed to be, this is not my only reverie. I will resist, rock the boat, rattle my cage until the executioner comes to his senses, or until his job is done. Is that all we are to you, things to be owned, possessed, controlled? Do we really have no agency or choice, no voice? I am the master of my own pain, my own vein and my own life. I will not be discarded for my dangerous vice.
Lies upon lies, a tower of cards, towering now as you cower in fear, this is no joke to me. I am unwilling to capitulate, to fornicate, to mediate or fellate… I am a danger to myself and others, a cheating, cheated, robbed and beaten, woman with one shining space. Violated, adulterated, and yet, still walking calmly. Chastised, chattel, a little girl’s prattle about her needs, her self, her want, foolish and flawed, the foible of humanity and the destruction at the hands of men, the battle.
You are the owner of your inaction, you have no recourse, driven to distraction in this ultimate act of aggression, submission, repression, suspension. My life line hangs limply in the hands of the oppressor, why want what is never to be free, without blood, without measure. And then miraculously, it slithers from between your feet, beneath a rock, the curse of Eve. Original sin is not the sex, not the fruit, it is the letting in, it is the walking away when there is future, the staying still, the lies and sutures for a fabric torn to shreds, in bed, my own voice betrayed me. A man was there to interface me. Pounding pavement, no response, a voice unheard is not a voice un-thought: a life un-lived a life un-bought.
Walk away, says the man, from everything you know, let’s see if you can. And he, for his part, is unable to reciprocate, to mediate the cards in his hand. Unable, unwilling, uncaring, chilling… to think that in the end, it is the woman who must bear and bare and carry the weight. Burden on my soul, a sun spot, a hole, a whole lot of nothing, a dagger, a spade. A truco for the intellect, a disconnect, a crumpled wrapper its shiny beauty, bereft, bereaved a grieving widow with no window, no tricks up her sleeve.
The callous, the cunning, the creating, the running - the linguist, a tongue, a battle begun. A mother, a lover, an indecision maker, a ruinous queen of ache and retreat. Is that all I am or will ever be? You tell me, oh man, of underhanded calculating, crass and crushing, beautiful and blushing I tear my soul from my chest for you, to have you turn it over and say, “it’s nothing much”. I should have known, I should always have known that the words of a man are just the words he wants to hear, in the moment, in the falling, in his aging, paralyzing fear. A woman is no better, so don’t get me wrong, the walking and watching the being, the song. The nagging, the needing, the ignoring, the breaking, controlling to be controlled, we are the downfall of you, it is absolutely, absurdly, undoubtedly true.
Why, then, am I writing these lines to you? Is there redemption or revindication in the petition, in the asking is there a taking of what is mine, a mundane day, a wandering mind a flagrant and faithless foul, sliding and taking you down? Is there a vengefulness, an anger, a hate? A breathless and frenzied, un-slowable gait, a path to the ocean, the land underfoot. Is there a love, inextinguishable for my only mistake? In the end, in the world of men, I will be the heartless femme fatale, a femme, a lie, a woman’s mate. Another man’s wife, inclemency, rage, betrayal of language, rattling my cage.
A swan dive, a swan song, a fist in the wall, a child kept well-hidden, protected from the fall, wise eyes all-knowing, wise-heart a fear, what have I done, what will I do, what do you care?
This is not how it was supposed to be, this is not my only reverie. I will resist, rock the boat, rattle my cage until the executioner comes to his senses, or until his job is done. Is that all we are to you, things to be owned, possessed, controlled? Do we really have no agency or choice, no voice? I am the master of my own pain, my own vein and my own life. I will not be discarded for my dangerous vice.
Lies upon lies, a tower of cards, towering now as you cower in fear, this is no joke to me. I am unwilling to capitulate, to fornicate, to mediate or fellate… I am a danger to myself and others, a cheating, cheated, robbed and beaten, woman with one shining space. Violated, adulterated, and yet, still walking calmly. Chastised, chattel, a little girl’s prattle about her needs, her self, her want, foolish and flawed, the foible of humanity and the destruction at the hands of men, the battle.
You are the owner of your inaction, you have no recourse, driven to distraction in this ultimate act of aggression, submission, repression, suspension. My life line hangs limply in the hands of the oppressor, why want what is never to be free, without blood, without measure. And then miraculously, it slithers from between your feet, beneath a rock, the curse of Eve. Original sin is not the sex, not the fruit, it is the letting in, it is the walking away when there is future, the staying still, the lies and sutures for a fabric torn to shreds, in bed, my own voice betrayed me. A man was there to interface me. Pounding pavement, no response, a voice unheard is not a voice un-thought: a life un-lived a life un-bought.
Walk away, says the man, from everything you know, let’s see if you can. And he, for his part, is unable to reciprocate, to mediate the cards in his hand. Unable, unwilling, uncaring, chilling… to think that in the end, it is the woman who must bear and bare and carry the weight. Burden on my soul, a sun spot, a hole, a whole lot of nothing, a dagger, a spade. A truco for the intellect, a disconnect, a crumpled wrapper its shiny beauty, bereft, bereaved a grieving widow with no window, no tricks up her sleeve.
The callous, the cunning, the creating, the running - the linguist, a tongue, a battle begun. A mother, a lover, an indecision maker, a ruinous queen of ache and retreat. Is that all I am or will ever be? You tell me, oh man, of underhanded calculating, crass and crushing, beautiful and blushing I tear my soul from my chest for you, to have you turn it over and say, “it’s nothing much”. I should have known, I should always have known that the words of a man are just the words he wants to hear, in the moment, in the falling, in his aging, paralyzing fear. A woman is no better, so don’t get me wrong, the walking and watching the being, the song. The nagging, the needing, the ignoring, the breaking, controlling to be controlled, we are the downfall of you, it is absolutely, absurdly, undoubtedly true.
Why, then, am I writing these lines to you? Is there redemption or revindication in the petition, in the asking is there a taking of what is mine, a mundane day, a wandering mind a flagrant and faithless foul, sliding and taking you down? Is there a vengefulness, an anger, a hate? A breathless and frenzied, un-slowable gait, a path to the ocean, the land underfoot. Is there a love, inextinguishable for my only mistake? In the end, in the world of men, I will be the heartless femme fatale, a femme, a lie, a woman’s mate. Another man’s wife, inclemency, rage, betrayal of language, rattling my cage.
A swan dive, a swan song, a fist in the wall, a child kept well-hidden, protected from the fall, wise eyes all-knowing, wise-heart a fear, what have I done, what will I do, what do you care?
posted by ilana at 5:08 p.m.
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