Little Sleeper

Small feet in pink tennis shoes
Laces left carelessly untied
Panties and mini-skirt discarded
T-shirt hastily removed
Legs spread in a gaudy display

But she knows no shame

Prepubescent breasts barely fill her training bra
Tiny nipples cold and hard
Press like tiny pebbles against the damp cotton
Empty arms outstretched
Palms up to heaven in supplication
An unlikely intercessor for the sins of a man
Mouth agape and eyes rolled back behind half-open lids
Wearing a look of perpetual surprise
Head cradled in a pool of crimson
Body sheathed in dew

But she feels no cold

Daddy's little girl
Made to be the hostess with the mostess
Caters patiently to the flies
As a butterfly stops to sip from her navel

On a bed of weeds at the edge of the woods

She sleeps

Peace and Love,

Alizé (LoversA.blogspot.com)

Text and Photo: Copyright © 2008 Xavier Pierre Jr. All rights reserved.

Tell Me How You Do It

Who looks back at you when you stare into the mirror?

Do you recognize evil or are you just numb to your own horror?

How can you take innocence and twist it, crush it, spoil it?

What makes you think a child can be your personal human toilet?

How do you take your own precious daughter’s virginity,

Then tell her mother (your wife,) “There are 2 sides to every story”?

How do you (with a straight face,) tell your child Daddy loves her

When you know damn well all you want to do is fuck her?

How do you stalk her, harass her, and lie in wait

Using money, lies, and promises as bait?

How do you walk down the street and feel no shame

When you're fucking your own daughter, like it’s a game?

How do you sleep at night knowing that her belly aches,

Her body is sore and her little heart breaks?

Don't you think it's sick to deflower your own daughter?

Tell me, how do you do it? How do you call yourself a father?

I wrote that poem last year for SAAM. There are absolutely no words to express how privileged I feel to be loved as strongly, trusted as completely, let in as deeply as how Ali loves me, trusts me and let’s me in. The photo above was taken on my first trip to Jamaica. While Ali and I were together I was very surprised to see her crying. I mean we were having the most wonderful time in the world and there she was crying. I asked what was wrong and without looking at me she just said in that soft voice of hers. “I know you’re not leaving until tomorrow, but I miss you already.”

Peace and Love,

Alizé (LoversA.blogspot.com)

Text and Photo: Copyright © 2008 Xavier Pierre Jr. All rights reserved.

Poor Thing.

It happens to other people
You say how sad
You say poor thing
But when it's you
It's something else,
It's everything.
It started with something minor,
went from there to something worse
The friends you loved
The thoughts you knew
Just disappeared
Felt so weird
Half blessing
Half cursed
It happens to other people

You say how sad

You say poor thing

Here's to April -> SAAM. This poem is about rape.

Raising Awareness

Just about every woman I know has been sexually assaulted at some point in their life. While the attacker is often a stranger, more often than not, it's someone they know. Sometimes the attacker is a close relative or even a brother or a father. But make no mistake; women are not the only victims. Young boys are increasingly being victimized by friends and relatives. Please share this page with as many people you can. The people you least expect might be the ones who need to read this the most.

************

This is from my upcoming second book, “Twelve Steps” which is the sequel to “Lovers Anonymous”. The Character of Terry is introduced in chapter 11.

"A Casual Conversation"

The two-bedroom apartment we shared had come fully-furnished. To us everything spoke of quality and comfort, if not luxury. To the vast majority of people living in Haiti, even most middle-class people, our home was an example of the extreme disparity that polarized the impoverished island nation. Terry, my roommate, was something of an art collector and had managed to acquire some impressive pieces over the years. Fabrice had paid for most of it of course, but Terry didn’t like to talk about her ex.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and we sat in the living room doing what we did best; lounging in our underwear, chatting about happier times and exchanging memories of our misspent youth as the tropical breeze danced through the apartment. Though we were not intimately involved, we seemed a living picture of domestic tranquility; I with my mango smoothie and Terry with her rum and coke.
I don’t remember how we got on this new subject, but when Terry spoke she erased everything that had previously been said from my memory.
She was slouched on the loveseat in her mismatched bra and panties with her legs spread slightly apart, “I was raped once,” Terry said matter-of-factly.
“Oh my God,” I said sitting up, “what happened?”
Terry leaned back, extended her long white legs out in front of her, and folded her arms across her chest as she looked up at the ceiling. “I was about 19 and I was hitchhiking home after a night of drinking. This car stopped for me… They got me.” Terry let out a nervous giggle before continuing. “I knew better than to get in a car with 2 guys, but one of them laid low. By the time I saw him it was too late. He just jumped out and grabbed me.”
“Holy shit.” That was all I could say as I leaned forward on the couch.
“Yeah,” Terry started again in a calm voice, “they fucked me up pretty good. They took turns in the back seat. Good thing I was drunk or it probably woulda hurt more.” Another nervous giggle.
“Terry, I am so sorry.” I said softly, not sure what else to say.
Terry looked at me and smiled distantly, “oh it’s ok man, that was years ago.” She pulled her legs back and reached forward to get her rum and coke from the coffee table. After taking a slow sip she looked past me to a bare spot on the wall and spoke again. “I just wish they had left my boots on. I had just bought these brand new cowboy boots. But I was wearing a skirt. They could have ripped that off without taking my boots off.”
I tried to imagine Terry fighting for her life. “I bet you were trying to kick the shit out of them.”
Terry looked at me. “Nah man, these were some big guys, I didn’t stand a chance. When they were done they drove for a few miles then threw me out onto the side of the road and tossed my clothes out after me, but one of my boots stayed in the car.” Terry looked at the wall again with an annoyed look on her face. “I really liked those boots.”
.../...

For Me

Too busy to write
Is like too busy to breathe
Yet gasping for fleeting minutes
Til I had to hold my breath...
I mean I held my pen
But it exploded
Exposing my thoughts
My feelings and frustrations
Climaxing repeatedly
Onto the black fabric of my blog

Reading it leaves a stain
An indigo blotch
Nestled in my empty pocket
Turned inside out like my soul
Even after many washings
Resisting all attempts to make it clean
An ever-present reminder
From the neglected pen
That screamed out for attention
Thinking about it makes me want to cry

And tear drops fall like ink
Black rain on skin-colored paper
Like obscene tattoos of my visions
But this is more than skin deep
This is the reality of human waste
Mortals too blunted to be mortified
Too dead to be considered normal
Yet so much like me that I love them
The wretches no one cares about
Given life by the ink of my eyes

And what about the soundtrack
Should I share the stories of
Pride gone and self-esteem so low
Some pay cash for a chance to give blowjobs
To condescending self-important scumbags
Because it make them feel special
To feel hot sweaty palms on their heads
While being told they give the best head
That sucking sound is not their lips
It’s their souls being drawn from their flesh

But this is not about them
It’s about my selfish need to be selfless
It’s about my insatiable thirst
To drink the bitter dregs of pain
From every Jane Doe’s cup of misery
A gesture of goodwill to those I meet today
In memory of the ones who kept me warm
When my world was lonely and cold
It’s about wanting to make a difference
In the life of a fatherless child

Yet another fatherless child

Peace and Love,

Alizé (LoversA.blogspot.com)

PS: April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month (SAAM). I am PASSIONATE about this issue and I’m determined to do my part to help educate as many people as possible. Please join me in spreading the word. Sexual violence must stop!

Text and Photo: Copyright © 2008 Xavier Pierre Jr. All rights reserved.