Touched.

Blood roses.

You said to me.
You love me/want me/care for me.
But you freaking lied.
All you care about is.
Point your 'gun' to me and 'shoot'.
I am the country you conquered.
You undressed me.
Marked me. Here and there.
Mapping your territory.
You grabbed. Groped.
Pushed. Licked. More pushing.
You are the authority.
I am the subjection.
You said to me.
This is love. Not lust.
But why am I constantly finding ways
to escape from your ruling?
Your dictatorship is bruising me.
Every morning.
I wake up with blood roses blooming
beneath my skin.
Indicating where you have sinned.
These blood roses.
On my thighs.
Up here. Down there.
One day.
These blood roses will save me.
These blood roses with
wild thorns of my desire to escape this
will hurt you real bad.
Because the next time you touch me.
You will bleed.
And when you do.
I will be a free country.
There will be no more bruises.
Maybe tomorrow.
You'll be nothing more but a damned King.

"This is a piece inspired by a friend who recently suffered from domestic abuse. And something to do with real life. Women are meant to be taken care of and respected.

Sisters, fear not"

BY AMIRAH ASRAF