“You my bitch”, he said. 

“You my bitch!” 

then punctuated it with 

a back slap across my face 

that made me see stars. 

Correction, constellations. 

I had been his bitch. 

When he needed me to be, 

When I needed me to be. 

After he had consumed three 

Pints of vodka, six joints, two 

Lines of blow and most of my pride. 

I would offer to be his lover, mother,

brother, savior But consent to be his

bitch 

As his tongue traveled the back 

Of my neck and took refuge in my ear, 

While his hand roamed the curve  

of my spine, my bikini underwear and 

massaged the spot that made me hot 

and wet and want. 

I consented to be his

bitch with my legs In the

air; white socks like flags

waving Surrender. I took all

he could not give 

And gave what he did not deserve, 

While mumbling for forgiveness 

To Jesus, Jah, Budda and the fly 

On the wall; all shakin’ their heads 

In shame. 

Yes I was his bitch 

That night, that sad sorry night 

When being me was not enough, 

When pain ran a muck and  

I just didn’t give a fuck. 

But as I stood in my kitchen 

At three in the mornin’ 

Being forced to cook him dinner, 

Knowing he had just fucked some 

Woman across town. Her pussy still 

Ripe on his pants, “bitch” dripping from his lips.

I was not his

bitch and I told

him so and

punctuated It

with a frying

pan to the side

Of his mother

fuckin’ head, 

“I ain’t no bitch!”