Evidence
when the woman was not a corpse,
she was a corset, a bloody boa,
a dripping arrangement of jewels.
when the woman was not a news report
she was a show
was the light
the action
no camera
no candlelight-
like what you see?
say it out loud
when the woman was a woman
she was a fabulous flurry of ruby and glitter
a ball of sequin and lace spinning in several hot circles
when the woman was a boy,
she knew she was not.
had no way to say,
“this body must have been made for somebody else”
when the woman grew from boy to man
she began to fall apart,
it all happened in parts
when the man found out that the woman
and him had some of the same parts
he began to rip her apart,
it all happened in parts
before she was a corpse
she was a bloody scream
before she was a scream
she was a moan, a giggle
he, a hungry flirt
after him she became a story
a mythical monster
never no longer just a woman;
but what a spectacle, what a show
Lessons
Scream. Holler. Shout.
Belt a song to the night
Yell. Bellow. Bark.
Harp the pain inside, outside
Cry. Plead. Bargain.
Beg the sky to grow itself a mouth and swallow you
Kick. Bite. Scratch.
Never again cut those nails
You may need those talons next time the shadows stalk you
Be as loud as a Whisper. Whimper. Muffle your sobs
Choke the gurgle of resistance bubbling from your throat
Strangle the plumes of curses flowering from your lips
Learn yourself a silent howl
A hushed resolution
A quieting rebuttal
A dormant tool
A still water
Baptize. Bury. Drown.
Watch them float in the sea of your obsidian
Watch them lag in the stream of your tears
Collect these throbbing
bodies if only
to notice how satisfied
they look.
Skin a gibbous
collection wrapped
around brined flesh
Look at how they
bump into each other
how they lobby like
pond of worms.
Clench. Squint. Squirm.
Know that relaxation is a luxury you forfeited
That this body is a home you gave away the keys to
Breathe. Heave. Sigh.
This is yours, not his.
Yours, not his.
Say it to yourself.
Begin to believe it.
This is pleasure, not pain.
Pleasure, not pain.
Thomas “Tom Cat” Hill is a professional rug cutter and poet from the Washington D.C area. He is an eighteen-year-old black queer activist and artist whose work seeks to crack open the narratives that often go unspoken. He was the 2014 DC Youth Grand Slam Champion, helping win his team the international title at Brave New Voices. He has performed at venues ranging from the Stage Theatre in South Africa, to Harvard University, to the Kennedy Center in his own city. Tom Cat seeks to make the personal, poetic and political. He currently attends St. John’s university as an English major with a minor in Creative Writing. He is a ferocious lover, performer, and fan of fantasy.