Jessicamarie wermes
her name was rose
she was 17 you said, right
when you took her to a sex shop
read the magazine covers out loud
till her cheeks blushed crimson
said it was for your amusement
said your relationship was different
and it wasn’t until you said
she was a bridesmaid at your wedding
that it hit me
in the hushed tones of what you just confessed
our 37 year age gap hung in the air between us
like sizzling electric
and i wonder what story about you
she would tell me if she could
what shade of gray would you be painted in
was it different or was she just a victim
and not to make this about me
but i think i know why she did it
the same reason the ink of you
spills into my every poem
medicine overdosed
the paradox of a healing killing thing
and what do broken teenage girls
have to hold on to but men
who wear the face of (their) fathers
rope burned fingers from a cling i know well
i shouldn’t have been surprised
there was a girl before me
men who wrap girls around their pinkies
like bubblegum are rarely satisfied
with tasting just one flavor
still as you lean into me, laughing
i can’t help question
what happened to the girl you described as like
the daughter you didn’t want
if she has healed from the ways
in which you stained her
or if she still finds your dusted black fingerprints
lingering in the aching corners
and what hope then do i have
to come away from you without
becoming a crime scene
or maybe, my god
at the very least
the word “daughter” will never fall from your poisoned lips
to name me as such
when you took her to a sex shop
read the magazine covers out loud
till her cheeks blushed crimson
said it was for your amusement
said your relationship was different
and it wasn’t until you said
she was a bridesmaid at your wedding
that it hit me
in the hushed tones of what you just confessed
our 37 year age gap hung in the air between us
like sizzling electric
and i wonder what story about you
she would tell me if she could
what shade of gray would you be painted in
was it different or was she just a victim
and not to make this about me
but i think i know why she did it
the same reason the ink of you
spills into my every poem
medicine overdosed
the paradox of a healing killing thing
and what do broken teenage girls
have to hold on to but men
who wear the face of (their) fathers
rope burned fingers from a cling i know well
i shouldn’t have been surprised
there was a girl before me
men who wrap girls around their pinkies
like bubblegum are rarely satisfied
with tasting just one flavor
still as you lean into me, laughing
i can’t help question
what happened to the girl you described as like
the daughter you didn’t want
if she has healed from the ways
in which you stained her
or if she still finds your dusted black fingerprints
lingering in the aching corners
and what hope then do i have
to come away from you without
becoming a crime scene
or maybe, my god
at the very least
the word “daughter” will never fall from your poisoned lips
to name me as such
the feminine rage of an alive creature
i finger myself on the couch while watching the election results. because if I’m going to be fucked, it might as well be by my own soft touch. my breathless moans drown out newscasters who debate the rights of my existence. i do this to prove them wrong. prove there is a heart beating inside the hollow of this girl flesh. once a guy showed me porn of an underage video game character. blood trickled down the severed stub where her head used to be, it rests between her bouncing tits. she, a caricature of death, tongue out, eyes crossed. this, the appeal. actual fuck meat a comment calls her and what he means is a thing he can get off on hating. how easy to be a man when the thing you’re fucking can’t think, feel or talk back. how once, hazy off of weed smoke, a boyfriend asked would it be weird if i fucked your corpse and that night i became too much of a breathing beast. a mouthy little pussy whose opinions take up too much space. yet boys on college campuses chant your body, my choice. shout misogyny into microphones, vote a rapist into office then claim it’s not all men. but it is all women. and i refuse to be nothing more than a statistic, a body. a count. to give and never receive. so i will be the bear consuming myself, reach my hand in, tender skin dripping honey. be soft in the face of callous because what's more alive than pleasure. what's more real than coming to orgasm.
Jessicamarie Wermes is a queer poet, who has been writing for as long as she can remember, whether it be short stories, song lyrics or poetry. As a person who feels very deeply, writing has always been her favorite way to express herself. She hopes that her written words can inspire and comfort others, so that readers may feel a little less alone. She lives in Illinois with her pet snake, Ouroboros, and dog, Candy. Besides writing, her favorite pastime is playing DND at her local game shop.
