I am your statue of violation; made beautifully for your distaste.
Painted distortions. Picasso?
No, no work of art am I, but a kneaded clod of your configuration.
Groped colors. Oestrus shapes. Raped tones.
My body made from the most indestructible material for your destruction;
I am nothing more than nothing.
I am abandoned. I am jerked. I am pulsed.
Your hands snatch and rake, wring and wrench.
Your eyes--hangers--rip daily into my flesh gorges, sinews vomited with hatred.
My essence depleted. My soul whitewashed. My heart crumpled.
Betrayal's craters and the debris of rejection often brand me.
The tastes of love know not I, and loneliness' poison is my blood.

I am your statue of violation; perfectly designed for your distaste.
My head: non-existent, for you are my head
My neck: your Babylonian tower to topple like the mighty Samson
My shoulders: your platform for my forced submission
My arms: your reins to keep me on the straight and narrow
My breast: your forsaken lots and lost change
My ribs: yours, encaging my life force
My back: your pharaoh's chariot
My hips: your Roman columns desecrated
My vagina: your walled outlet
My legs: your indentured walking sticks
My feet: your waiter's trays on which to keep your tapped rhythms.

I am your duty. Your machine. Your playground. Your experiment.

I am your statue of violation;
made in your image…
I am Woman.