“I talk to you sometimes. In my head, the person you used to be before I
broke you. It’s unforgivable what I did and I’ve always had this bravado
about it but I’m just denying the truth: I am broken so I break.”—A.
The cunt of my soul
stained green. Sick. Red,
angry. Some twisted
monument to a
twisted Lord. It bears
signature wounds, not
teeth like I thought,
nor scratches, slices,
bruises, she leaves scars
disguised as lovers’
tattoos: it’s A, All,
dark spot on my hand.
I’m Lady Macbeth,
she’s damned regicide.
She stains. I sleep-walk.
Fail to wash –
Fail to really talk.
“I make them love me, make them think that no one will love them the
same and then I eat at their heart trying and trying to give it to me.”—A
It was a miracle birth,
Holy Mother, (Violent lover),
Un-virgin Mary, I slipped out from you
late (I had never drunk before
but I drank of your waters,
they tasted of gin and sickness)
And then you gave me
a reverse; that is to say,
you made me suck you in,
I couldn’t speak,
—I was like a child
my tongue not yet formed.
If you’re an artist who specialises in broken beauty,
I can’t even call myself your masterpiece.
I was just a test.
See how this new paint looks on
your old paper.
It was a miracle birth,
not without difficulty.
You told me it was pure.
The best thing you had ever created or felt or been,
something deep within your heart.
(I’ll never know love like this
from anyone but you, dear darling.
I said nothing. I cried. I threw up.
This be your canvas.
This is the art.)
“I need to stop but I can’t.”—A
I don’t know if I can say rape or abuse.
I force myself but then
that’s her, still forcing gently.
I can still say ex.
Ex, two x’s at the end of a text
Ex, sex, hex, x marks the spot
where I broke. A desert island.
My treasure is myself.
The twist: I am waterlogged,
only an empty chest.
“Your such a good person and I wish I could be like you. I wish I
could be you before I corrupted you. Your art was always better than mine
and while taking your faith in humanity, I took that too.”—A
Here’s some art:
It’s not as easy as you made it seem.
But it’s an art, right?
That’s what Sylvia told us both-
she did it so it felt real but
for me it was fake. That empty chest,
That miracle birth,
It was all a stage show, I was
waiting for the curtain to be pulled,
But the blood was real
and so were the scissors
and so was I, the one
that you took, shook. It took me years to understand.
It was both illusion, sleight of hand
and reality, grit.
You want to be like me?
It’s impossible, rape is a strange dance.
One lead, one unresponsive partner
lies beneath. Look up at your chin.
Breathe in, breathe in,
Try raping a pillow.
Try abusing a bed.
Look at your stains, your work:
Brown, black and red.
I was your doll.
You stuffed me
if I would
My faith in humanity,
you took that, too,
along with my virginity,
identity. I have a new religion now.
Back in Ancient Greece, the Gods
were not good. They were jealous.
They stole young girls,
because that’s what happens when you give
less-than-perfect people power, well
I’m the new Greece,
Noses, arms chipped away, only held
together with a rusted steel rod
pushed right between my legs up
through my body, into my head.
And countless shrines across my heart,
all dedicated to my vicious, pointless God—
Alison is an 18 year-old transgender writer who lives in the South of England and studies at the University of Sussex. She loves mythology, folklore, gothic romance and neon-lit cinema. Her poetry has previously been published in Persephone’s Daughters, TAME zine and Cahoodaloodaling.