Confessions of an Optimistic Pessimist

How dare he.
      How fucking dare he?
Reaching out as though we are old chums,
Hoping to rekindle the hearth of a house
That once burned down long ago.
I still feel the ash and debris
       Lodged deep in my throat.
My tongue, singed. Charred, grey. Sore.

            There is no vacancy here.

“Every woman adores a Fascist,   
The boot in the face,” but
I want to crush him underneath the oppressive weight of my boot,
      Nestle the heel on his neck,
To make him insignificant as an ant
      Small and helpless
      As he once made me feel.
As I delight in the crunch.

I want to meet up with him in a café
and when he stands,
Nervously reaching out for a handshake,
I want to squeeze it til
    The bones snap.
A gleam in my eye that says,
   “Im better than you, you son of a bitch.”

I wanna spit a fat loogie into
     his eye and brim with pride.

I paid the price of being a woman,
The rotten orange.
I swallowed all the shame and guilt.
The ostracization.
I dug myself out from underneath the wreckage,
My body, feeble and weak, amongst the dirt and muck,
Clinging to the callous of my fingertips
And the grit of my teeth.

I’d bet he’s never known strife.
Felt pure exhaustion looming behind tired eyes, heavy
the bags are underneath, aging.

Hes never fled in the dark of night
And slept on a black-and-white title floor.
The embers of adreline scratching at the lining of your intestines,
The pain chewing away at your jaw
As you look down at hardly a fist,
   Barely clenched and aching,
Wondering if you broke it in the blow.

Hes never felt the cold of
Keys neatly placed between fingers and
The demeaning, placating smiles.
Never heard,
   “Youre so much prettier when you smile.        Smile for me, sweetheart,”

Or felt the dull sting of rejection
Rearing its ugly head in
       the bottom of your ribcage.
Or clung to quiet desperation.
The need for someone
    For anyone
To answer the phone and say,
          “It’s going to be okay.”
The receiver, met with silence.

This world has
Chewed me up, spit me back out
And
chewed me up, spit me back out
So many times that
I wondered when the fault line
beneath my feet would open
   And swallow me whole.
That it would tear muscle and flesh from bone.
Use my femur to pick its teeth with.
When I would
lie down
            And just
                            Die.

But I wont.

This is female rage.
         Unbridled.
         Scathing.
         Brutal.

No longer malleable
     But fully formed.
No longer doe-eyed and docile,
     Only re-emerged.

Karma is a woman,
     And she is a bitch.