Hounds
2014. Friend and I watch Game of Thrones.
Friend tells me Sansa Stark is one of her favorite characters.
I tell friend Sansa’s okay, but she needs to learn to fight back.
Sansa. I once watched as you mistook monster for knight in shining armor,
saw him beat a butcher’s boy and blamed it on anyone but him,
looked into a big bad wolf’s hungry eyes and called it a fairy tale.
Seasons later, when you found yourself dressed up for a cold wedding
to a man with a numb frozen heart, I wondered how you could let this all happen to you.
2015. Boyfriend and I watch Game of Thrones.
Boyfriend tells me Sansa’s rape scene was hard to watch
before telling me to get on my knees for the fourth time that day or he’ll find someone that will.
I do not fight back. I do not fight
ever. But Sansa, you and I learned around the same time that the opposite of fighting
is not always peace.
In our first month of dating, he pinned me to the couch
just to prove he could. I wondered if I was supposed to thank him
when he didn’t do anything more, when all it was was a reminder
that he was the king and my body his throne. Sometimes, I still wish
I’d been made of iron. Sometimes, I still wish every inch of me
had been a sword.
2016. I watch Game of Thrones alone.
Sansa, in my mind, you already rule kingdoms.
You carry the weight of sexual assault and relationship violence
from one season to the next and I’ve never picked up a sword and shield
but I know which is heavier.
When you fall asleep in the arms of an abuser, you have fought a battle and won
every time you choose to wake up the next morning.
You are the rightful queen of your own bruised body
and when you said you still feel his invasion, I wonder how many people
are nodding along with their tv screens. When you said all memory of him will disappear,
did you mean it? How did you face your abuser across a battlefield
when I can’t face mine across a city bus, when I have to get off a stop early,
when I spend all summer hoping for sunburn so I can peel away the skin he’s touched,
knowing winter is not coming.
Knowing it’s been here for centuries.
You didn’t have to get revenge, you know. When you captured him, he spent longer behind bars
than 97% of rapists do anyway and when you watched hounds devour him, when you smiled
at the sound of screams I wanted so badly to be disappointed in you
but maybe we are both more hound than human these days.
Maybe we’ve been begging for justice that no one else would serve us,
maybe we’ve been trapped in this cage for months, maybe we’re tired of being treated
like loyal pets by boys with blue eyes, maybe this time we will not sit, will not stay,
will not roll over, will not beg, will just devour and who can blame us,
our watering mouths, our starving bodies, a chance to feel full again. Who can blame us
for being hungry?
Ideation
It’s a prettier word than it needs to be; sounds like
“idea” or “ideal” or “idol,” makes me feel like
I should be standing in line for four hours
to meet someone famous and have them Sharpie
barely legible inspiration on my wrist after asking me
if my name is spelled with a “C” or a “K.”
I used to idolize Kurt Cobain back in seventh grade,
when it was cool to request 90’s alternative at school dances
and we all thought we smelled like teen spirit.
I started wearing Converse, ripped skinny jeans, wanted
to know what every lyric meant and to lock the knowledge
in a heart-shaped box for safekeeping.
We all thought it was Courtney
at least once. Something about the angle of
the gunshot wound or left-handedness,
something about the syntax of the suicide
note. We worshipped him as our guitar grunge god
and he couldn’t have done it.
But now I’d swear on a vintage record of
Nevermind that Kurt Cobain killed himself.
Too many sleepless nights in a row,
that heaviness in his stomach still growing
like he was a woman with a lead weight in utero
and it was easier to leave that morning
than to spend another day underneath the bridge
from ideation to intent.
I know, I’m supposed to be in bloom.
You know you’re right, but then, I’m left
wishing for an umbilical noose. I don’t want to
drain you, don’t want to be endless
or nameless. You have to understand;
there’s been something in the way.
Peace, love, and empathy never got me anywhere.
Tell Floyd the barber
I won’t be back next week.
2014. Friend and I watch Game of Thrones.
Friend tells me Sansa Stark is one of her favorite characters.
I tell friend Sansa’s okay, but she needs to learn to fight back.
Sansa. I once watched as you mistook monster for knight in shining armor,
saw him beat a butcher’s boy and blamed it on anyone but him,
looked into a big bad wolf’s hungry eyes and called it a fairy tale.
Seasons later, when you found yourself dressed up for a cold wedding
to a man with a numb frozen heart, I wondered how you could let this all happen to you.
2015. Boyfriend and I watch Game of Thrones.
Boyfriend tells me Sansa’s rape scene was hard to watch
before telling me to get on my knees for the fourth time that day or he’ll find someone that will.
I do not fight back. I do not fight
ever. But Sansa, you and I learned around the same time that the opposite of fighting
is not always peace.
In our first month of dating, he pinned me to the couch
just to prove he could. I wondered if I was supposed to thank him
when he didn’t do anything more, when all it was was a reminder
that he was the king and my body his throne. Sometimes, I still wish
I’d been made of iron. Sometimes, I still wish every inch of me
had been a sword.
2016. I watch Game of Thrones alone.
Sansa, in my mind, you already rule kingdoms.
You carry the weight of sexual assault and relationship violence
from one season to the next and I’ve never picked up a sword and shield
but I know which is heavier.
When you fall asleep in the arms of an abuser, you have fought a battle and won
every time you choose to wake up the next morning.
You are the rightful queen of your own bruised body
and when you said you still feel his invasion, I wonder how many people
are nodding along with their tv screens. When you said all memory of him will disappear,
did you mean it? How did you face your abuser across a battlefield
when I can’t face mine across a city bus, when I have to get off a stop early,
when I spend all summer hoping for sunburn so I can peel away the skin he’s touched,
knowing winter is not coming.
Knowing it’s been here for centuries.
You didn’t have to get revenge, you know. When you captured him, he spent longer behind bars
than 97% of rapists do anyway and when you watched hounds devour him, when you smiled
at the sound of screams I wanted so badly to be disappointed in you
but maybe we are both more hound than human these days.
Maybe we’ve been begging for justice that no one else would serve us,
maybe we’ve been trapped in this cage for months, maybe we’re tired of being treated
like loyal pets by boys with blue eyes, maybe this time we will not sit, will not stay,
will not roll over, will not beg, will just devour and who can blame us,
our watering mouths, our starving bodies, a chance to feel full again. Who can blame us
for being hungry?
Ideation
It’s a prettier word than it needs to be; sounds like
“idea” or “ideal” or “idol,” makes me feel like
I should be standing in line for four hours
to meet someone famous and have them Sharpie
barely legible inspiration on my wrist after asking me
if my name is spelled with a “C” or a “K.”
I used to idolize Kurt Cobain back in seventh grade,
when it was cool to request 90’s alternative at school dances
and we all thought we smelled like teen spirit.
I started wearing Converse, ripped skinny jeans, wanted
to know what every lyric meant and to lock the knowledge
in a heart-shaped box for safekeeping.
We all thought it was Courtney
at least once. Something about the angle of
the gunshot wound or left-handedness,
something about the syntax of the suicide
note. We worshipped him as our guitar grunge god
and he couldn’t have done it.
But now I’d swear on a vintage record of
Nevermind that Kurt Cobain killed himself.
Too many sleepless nights in a row,
that heaviness in his stomach still growing
like he was a woman with a lead weight in utero
and it was easier to leave that morning
than to spend another day underneath the bridge
from ideation to intent.
I know, I’m supposed to be in bloom.
You know you’re right, but then, I’m left
wishing for an umbilical noose. I don’t want to
drain you, don’t want to be endless
or nameless. You have to understand;
there’s been something in the way.
Peace, love, and empathy never got me anywhere.
Tell Floyd the barber
I won’t be back next week.
Christina Szuch is a senior at The Ohio State University. This is her first publication. Her life dreams include accumulating cats, destigmatizing mental illness, eating a pierogi taco, destroying the patriarchy, learning to interact with fellow humans in a less awkward manner, meeting a sloth, and seeing Sansa Stark take the Iron Throne.