They arouse suspicious dreams, circling her –

these words of want

bitten on a message left, where no space is left for her.

They have a monopoly on all things –

her conscience, her motives, her inner switch.

They feel her pulse and decide,

reign the veins in

and position the bridle –

take her to the water to drink.

 

The pail is one centimetre wide, sugar coated and an easy sink –

she necks them all,

for they have a monopoly on all things –

pain and pleasure in any sensory form,

the insides of her are in their hands always –

she is unforgiven,

an empty vessel.

 

They pour things in to her – a brew of nettles,

a metal – the soft smiling petal

shrewdly worn, the place that they gave to her

to know what’s for,

and all that she is for.

It is a trap, they say,

for your disease – a monthly lack of logic.

They have a monopoly on these things.

 

They stir, boil and simper –

the fragrance lingers in the air. It falls on her skin, exhausted

and keeps her sin visible.

They have a monopoly on her.

 

She is drunk and unlovable,

they say.

What right does she have to love?

 

They, on the other hand

demand she fill them up to the brim.