Three Poems – Juliet Cook

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Who do you think you are?

I'm nothing
except for my own dirty

dirty underwear 
ripped off and shoved down
my own throat.

"You like that souvenir?" 

He told me what my voice box needed.
A total re-master.



What do you think you deserve? 

The last gift he gave me when we were still together was a bag of Nips. 
A temporary flavor with a price cut.
(In my head, I'm worth nothing but
a cracked open amulet full of filth.)

"Can I come over and give you one more thing?
 Please?" he asked me.  Despite my discomfort,  
I agreed, because 
I didn't want to hurt
him I didn't know
what he had to give me, 
he said it was a better gift
than the last one.

"Do you really think you're a gift?
Do you really think you deserve this?"
He picked me up, tossed me onto the bed,
told me what he was going to do to me. 

He was going to rip off my wrapping.
He was going to cut off my nipples.

He pressed the knife into my flesh
and slowly penetrated
the right nipple
with his right hand.
He tried to yank off
the left nipple
with his left hand.  

He threw a bloody fragment 
and I saw it hit the mirror
like a mutilated horror movie scene.
I knew it was all my fault.

It was my fault for being a fuck toy
that needed to be cut
in order to understand.

It was my fault for turning him on by screaming.
It was my fault for turning him off and on.
It was my fault for letting him inside
my space, inside my brain, inside me
and all my tainted mixed up offerings
like an open and shut trap door
filled with out of control female pleasures.

It was my fault for allowing my pieces to spread 
too much and reveal my own warped uncertainty,
which generates more torture scenes.

Now my cut, ripped, bleeding breasts were nothing
but tiny red exit wounds.

He told me I would be sorry
for trying to break up with him. 
He told me he would break me
into even uglier pieces that nobody ever wanted 
to look at or touch again.  

He said he was so sick of trying, so sick
of hearing my sick voice trying 
to force itself into him and so soon 
I wouldn't have a voice anymore.  
He punched me in the face
again, harder, again, harder.

"I'm so sick of hearing you complain. 
Wait till you see how messed up your brain is after this.
You barely exist."



Background Music

The repetitive smashing 
of cookie cutters molds itself
into another cookie cutter.

A ripped open, misshapen hole is still a hole
and nobody listens to holes scream
accept in hardcore porn scenes.

Then the dog will shove a bone down your throat
so nobody hears you moaning out,
bleeding out, turning into a feeding tube

shaped like a woman's body with
plastic cookies for nipples,
spastic slits through the eyes.
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About Juliet Cook

A bloody stuck pig/female hybrid, oinking out oodles of poetry with black, silver, purple, and red explosions. View all posts by Juliet Cook

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