Abattoir Floor

A poem by Kaylen Forsyth

my name changes from BABY to HONEY,

NEARLY DRUNK ENOUGH, DARLING to BITCH.

i always thought i’d love the first boy to talk in poetry,

but i craved metaphors of moonlight, not war-talk and violence: 

BANG, SCREW, NAIL, DESTROY.

“i like this song, do you?”

“i prefer the original,”

and you’d think i’d said something funny;

i guess it’s hard for him to grasp-

i have an opinion, i exist outside of this room,

i exist as a person- when i’m not just a nail

to be banged, to be screwed.

i guess it’s hard for him to grasp- but do you know what’s harder?

watching a girl even younger than myself

with a man twice her age on the abattoir floor.

she’s probably the girl of his dreams

or close to it-

the youngest he won’t be sent down for,

and he grabs at her throat like he’d tear at a steak;

he decides if she’s raw,

if she’s burnt,

if she’s bloody.

“keep your eyes off those boys,you dirty, little slut!”

he has reigns on her conversations,

her body, her beauty.

and when i check on her later

she’s smiling so wide,

calls the finger-shaped bruises on her neck pretty pearls-

“why should I be afraid? it was just like a movie.”