Whipped

{I wrote this poem as a salute to all the women through the generations, who have been required to play second fiddle in their own marriages, allowing their husband to be dominant, even at the risk of losing their own identity.

Fortunately I have not had such a marital experience myself, though I have experienced what it is like to feel nullified, even for a short time, by dominant or ruthless or thoughtless personalities.

I meant the title to be somewhat tounge-in-cheek, since this expression and its vulgar cousin are usually only applied to men.

I also left out the punctuation on purpose, to convey a hollow, hopeless tone.}

 

All my life

With scraps from your table

Ive nibbled at edges

Ribs riddling my skin.

 

All my life

I’ve yearned for approval

Absorbed strokes, dismissals

Endured all your cruel kicks and hits.

 

All my life

Ive waited in shadows

Ive mouthed faint opinions

Your own: I agreed with it.

 

All my life

My corked fizzy innards

Compressed, nearly burst 

Where my thin skin begins

As distinct

From your whip.

 

Copyright 2019 Andrea LeDew