Something else

 

Now, don't get me wrong, I am not anti-sex.

 

But the only free pussy

I'd ever want is the purring kind.

You see, I don't want a conquest,

a cheap scorecard marked off,

or a notch on a splintered bedpost.

 

I refuse to use my strength over another.

 

I will never mark a girl's looks,

or scrawl out a list. I don't see people that way.

I don't grade my life on how people look,

or view other humans as mere objects.

Where you see walking fleshlights,

I see the fragile beauty of humankind.

 

To say I don't understand is an understatement.

I spend so much of my time trying to underline

how a brain functions - to empathise, to see why.

And I see too much ugly -

so much that I want to close my eyes.

 

But I won't. I'll never close my eyes.

I won't close the blinds, or turn out the light.

I will watch, and I will cut you down.

Because you are not fit

to wear the skin suit you briefly own,

if you are not willing

to care for the safety of another one.

 

I had opportunities when I was young -

threesomes and a line of one-night stands.

And you know what I did?

I declined.

Because first, they were drunk,

and second, I wasn't looking for a brief

chemical distraction, but a connection of mind.

I was looking for a soul

that would share infinitely more

than a night spent inside the sheets.

 

And I'm not anti-sex.

I love with the burning passion

of a supernova skyline. I love

with the will of the divine.

I give my heart, my soul, my whole being.

But my passion must be consensual -

because life is only ever truly sensual

when we can dive deeper

into each other than just our skin.

 

So maybe, I am not a man to you.

Well, if that is your view,

I am happy to take up the mantle

as something else.

Because here is the truth:

If your definition of sex requires

conquest, scorecards, manipulation,

and broken consent,

then yes - call me anti-sex.

I am completely anti-everything you stand for.

I used to think I was alien, but the only thing

inhuman is the thing that women fear.

I'd rather be nothing than be a man like you.

 

Love is meaning. Connection is our hearts

and minds unpeeling, so that we can become one.

 

Some are guided by angels,

whilst others walk with demons.

 

And hell is empty.

 

They all walk the college campuses,

the late-night alleyways, the day-to-day

encounters. The sleazy taxi drivers,

and the hollow-souled lawyers

who try to get these so-called men off.

The shape of a bruise

 

The shape of a bruise -

a heart entwined

in rose thorn abuse.

A crime scene photograph.

Leaving no clues.

We hide the proof,

cover it in loose clothes

to obscure the truth,

to stop the ink spreading,

to stop the shame

from shedding our skin.

 

I must have been to blame,

I must have loved them wrong.

 

The shape of a bruise -

a word used, trust abused,

chains of control, clanging

as you slouch,

a bird of hope flapping away.

Leaving, no choice, they lock

you in - just furniture, a door mat, a couch.

A book, pages torn out,

thrown into the fires

that rage upon unloved skin.

A weather map of storms

that have rained over our lands

by balled-up fists, the burnt remnants

from lips that have split atoms,

not caring hands and soothing smiles.

 

It's just the way they are.

They care really - it's my fault, I insist.

 

The shape of a bruise -

a kiss that hides its truth,

a caress that pretends to comfort you.

A building crumbling as the foundations

rumble beneath. A setting sun

that won't sit again in the sky for weeks.

A blue and purple tattoo that will fade,

leaving you alone, whilst the memory

remains. A moment of pain, but a lifetime

of trust washed away.

 

What can I do? No one will listen to me.

My words are just empty,

like the dead air inside of me.

 

The shape of a bruise -

a lightning bolt, a blinding light bulb.

A moment of enlightenment.

I won't be defined by your power games,

I won't be plugged into your mainframe

to drain my will again and again.

 

The shape of a bruise -

an exit sign hanging over an open doorway.

Mea Culpa

 

57 so-called men, a fraternity

of depraved minds. A collusion

of modern times' moral decline.

And us men say not all men,

but how can we

when so many prove

again and again

that, yes,

it is all men?

 

What happened to chivalry

or decency? What happened

to holding to account

those who break

the universal bonds?

We are one, but at times

it seems like we are two sides,

us and them. And now

it’s mea culpa, as the gates

have been opened

and all-out war sits

just outside the door.

 

I ask once more.

That we men say no more.

Not in our names.

Any man that degrades,

or sets ablaze a life

for their own gain,

we must show them the door,

throw the book,

along with the whole

fucking library.

And say no more.

We won't accept you

ruining our names.

 

And then we need to look inward.

And say no more. We can be better.

It doesn't take a trendsetter to show us

how to respect another. It just takes us

to look at one another as human.

Protect each other. Share our love

without demanding anything in return.

And maybe think of the women in your life,

what would you do if this was them?

I would walk through the fires of hell to

protect my friends and loved ones.

 

Would you?