Editor's ChoicePoetrySatire

Eight Years A Slave

Again,
What have I gained?
Trust has since been thrust,
Love has passed the baton to lust.

I married
So I won’t be called a marred reed.
All my other siblings,
My mum cherished like costly seedlings.

She had since had issues with me,
She discarded me like tissues used after meals.
When I grew cold feet for marriage,
She called out names of married women,
I was twice their age.

I married
So I won’t be called a marred reed.
But marriage is an institution
Where I keep failing—thus, I am on probation.

I have been a slave all my hey years.
In fact, in marriage, for eight years.
Being under mom, the slave driver
Didn’t pull a strand off my head.
But marriage is different,
It hurts to be used in one’s own home.

My husband calls me a failure:
Day and night, ladies that make sales
At night swarm into our home without fear of seizure.
I am just lured in here to suffer;
He says I have nothing to offer.

I cook to feed his whores
Who come in en masse like equipments of war.
He sees me as his official whore,
Copulation has since been war.

When I am asked why I am married,
I tell of how I don’t want to be called a marred reed.
But when I think about it,
For me not to become a reed
That people will read of and want to get rid of,
I had better pull off the title, married.

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