It breaks me to see myself with your eyes, dwell upon the assumptions you must have of me, to do unto me as you did, I often wonder.
It breaks me to know, I could be so meek in the face of such unprovoked outbursts, chagrin, squalls and misplaced thunder.
It breaks me to know, I could be so utterly giving into the hands of such incessant, self-entitled taking by another.
It breaks me to know, all of me given with every vehement ounce of me, couldn’t garner a response even roadside wenches evince from their labour class lovers.
It breaks me to know, it could have been different for me, had my skin tone been one of milk and not a mocha colour.
It breaks me to know, no matter what the affairs of the heart or the leanings of the soul, the superficial will always prevail over the deeper other.
It breaks me to know, there is a man out there who could commit a crime with such impunity and walk away as I scrub my own remnants off the bloodied floor, over and over.