Isolated

by his ignorance.

Pushed aside

by his lack of ability to see beyond greed.

Raped

by the loneliness of the company of a man who has no dimension.

Crucified

from the division he inflicts with his ideals of working together.

He calls this love,

this blatant manipulation of who/what/when/how;

he calls this love,

this oppressive shield of control

that he believes covers the insecurities that he denies he has.

He thinks I am beautiful

lying still on the bottom of this cage.

He thinks my wings look pretty

folded tight against my body,

and aching from never having stretched them.

He likes it when I sing

as long as it is quiet and there is no one to hear me.

It is when they hear my voice

that he realizes what he has got to lose,

and then he drapes a veil over the bars of this abyss

he calls love.

© Lisa Tate, July 1, 2006.

Winner - 2011 Cowichan Women Against Violence Poetry Competition

Featured at the Vagina Monologues Preformance, Cowichan Theatre.