Don’t think your spit will offend me
don’t think your abuse will shame
That harsh words will cut and bleed
they are nothing, but less of the same
No your shoves wont fall me flat …
won’t curl me to a ball
a red right-hand to slap
when my feet firm on ‘your’ soil
And my very name you use to curse
you would deny me food and bed
Yet I sigh a prayer, Oh God…
in squalor I lay my head
For it is not a dead mother’s breast . .
hacked and laid to ground
It is not a young sisters neck
.. softly sliced, don’t make a sound
Rough men between blooded thighs…
with rag shoved down my throat
Not the smell of three day flesh
bloated bodies, roll past the boat
And though you call me all kinds of filth
I have eaten worse filth than that . .
your contempt, I savour as proof
~ I am not where my dead lay at..