Personal Problems: 9th Account

(N.B. I have never been so honest to myself, to you, Reader, to humanity. I hope I never meet you. I hope your eyes never cut my face).

Some time back I said I fuck with words.
I still do.
I am their prostitute.
I am their dirty little whore.

My father holds me against the world,
If I could still keep his protection I would,
But I put 20 oceans between us for the sake of education.
Welcome to University.

Father, tell me something so innately personal
That it takes you back to you standing on the edge of your own father’s grave.

I know these cuts on your skin,
Father, Foreigner, Friend.

You never tell me your deepest secrets so easily,
I peel you back, layer by layer, once every 3 or 4 years.
So this time it will take you some time to think.
I’ll give you some of my own to soothe the pain you’re feeling.

I am your dirty half-breed daughter,
They called me that at school.
And I know it breaks you into two,
That you couldn’t whip humanity’s tongue back into the sewers of its throat.

I don’t blame you,
I don’t blame the blood running through my veins,
I’m happy to be this different,
I’m happy to stare in everybody’s eyes and be weird.

Your family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half Mother.
Mother’s family try to love me, but not wholly,
Because I’m half you.

Either way, both sides of the same coin are not in my life at all.
How long has it been since I stared into the eyes of my superior cousins?
So long.
So I live by the words,

And I’m sorry to say Father,
I’ve sold myself short to words.
I’m the Sasha Grey of language.
I don’t use protection, either.

How many times I’ve been knocked up,
I’ve lost count,
But I know that this coping mechanism hurts me so much sometimes
That I might as well abort myself.

If I weren’t in your life
Maybe I wouldn’t have licked the paddles of the racism,
I have swam in seas of other peoples’ spit,
So I go home and fuck another word or two.

Father, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for not being a mathematician.
I know you don’t say too many words in your life.
I know you will never like this work.

But I love you.
I love selling myself for free.
I’m fairly good at it; just like sex,
You get better at it the more you do it.

Every poem of mine is another ex that you never knew about
And every word is another sore you never saw
But you don’t have to heal it
Or bind it with “daddy strength”

If you need to know,
Scroll the pages.
Go through my texts and call up my ex-words,
My one night stands with syllables,

Because I haven’t seen them in months.
I miss them.
I miss Mother.
I miss you.

Maybe the fact we’re so hated by so many people who don’t know us
It turned us into selling ourselves short.
You still respect yourself.
Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do.

I chuck the coins from the spaces between my legs
And hopefully someone will eat them,
I’m not doing this for the money,
I just want somebody to listen, even if its not you.

So there you go Father.
I’ve said my piece.
You’re not somebody to shirk out on a deal,
You’re a man of your word.

Its your turn now.

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