January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One
Linda Wandt
From Flinch to Sense of Self

With every blow, each explosion of pain
I came to know hate on the most intimate of levels.
I didn't know what it meant at the time,
but I can still taste it on the edge of my tongue.

Predatory acts of ownership.
Like the carpet bum on my shoulder–
stamp of approval,
welcome to the club.

It's a heady rush,
standing so close the bass pounding in your veins
heartbeat catches up, so they pulse as one.
SL why can't I show some skin,
bear my tattoos and my teeth,
scream as long as abused lungs will allow–
why can't I be as angry as HELL......

Maybe my idea of pretty is black leather and spiked metal.
Maybe I'd rather be stoned than drunk on daiquiris
w/a joint between two fingers and a bottle of the hard shit in my
other hand
just like the Goddess Joplin.

I am not dainty.
I am not sweet.
I am damaged, torn, smashed
and tired of hiding it for your benefit.
(You fucking hypocrite, you're probably hiding it from me.)
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