The Price of His Love.

Would I be easier to manoeuvre, if I were smaller?

I wonder,

as his foot makes its way under the desk,

and attempts to place itself between my legs.

My knees jam against the sides of the desk,

the intercrural space is too narrow, for finesse,

he must force his way in,

like a bradawl, making room where none exists.

Such is his intention, it fits anywhere it wants,

at once, capacious enough to ensconce the world,

and miniscule enough to be inconspicuous in it.

I could be smaller, he could hold me up against the wall,

Or push my knees up onto this bench to make room,

My legs would feel different, maybe even my back,

but there is the perception of the skin, and then,

there is the maudlin sensation of the soul.

And in it, we would feel no different than ever,

terror is no different when your hips are narrow,

love feels no less real when your arms are flabby,

and shame doesn’t leak out of you any slower.

Would I be harder to hurt, if I were louder?

I wonder,

as he stands before me, his knuckles meeting my jaw,

a discontinuous staccato rhythm elicited from flesh,

serves as the only sound in the room.

If you looked at me, in this moment of surrender,

maybe you would think I was so assiduous,

and that I draw from a bottomless abyss of devotion,

but the truth is that I am resigned to him.

It sounds bad, like the crypt-like silence in this space,

It sounds like I am unfeeling, and in effect, broken,

But to me resignation is the end of futile fight.

The day I stopped wailing and wagging my fist,

at the abyss, it was atavistic,

like going back to an unknown yet familiar home,

and finding a piece of yourself you didn’t know was lost.

This is not an act of depredation he commits unto me,

It is him reaching into the detritus,

so I may make sense of the entire world.

I could, I could scream louder, and run,

I could wail and screech in resistance to this,

but only the Lucky find their purpose, and in that,

there is silence.

Would I be more sympathetic, if I were innocent?

I wonder,

as he leans over me on the floor,

his foot rests on my arm, his hand forces my mouth,

to open wide and receive, this silicon facsimile,

of a comically grotesque cock.

He plunges into my throat, carrying the blood off my lips,

Into the depths of my throat, as I beg for it,

in syllables woven out of glances of yearning,

and wrists placed, placidly, onto the floor.

It is the language of lovers, too personal to interpret,

but its intimacy, so searing, it is unmistakeable,

even to one who speaks no word of this language,

Of unbridled pleasure and shared skeletons in the backyard.

Not the trinkets of the innocent, I imagine,

I wouldn’t know, the only time I aspire to innocence,

Is when I wonder if I am worthy of mercy,

And even then, I know not what innocence is,

at all, it is one of those things,

you don’t know when you have it,

but it’s carved into your soul if you don’t.

I look at him, and just as a childish game,

I wonder if he could feel sorry for me, and if,

by some thaumaturgical feat, I could dress myself,

adorn myself in the stolen habiliments of innocence,

would this be any different, then?

Usually, I can posit several versions of a truth,

but in this love, there is only one version of us,

a singular truth,

I could be perfect, I could be the best person he will ever use,

in his eyes, I will always be the sinner, and in mine,

he will always be the executioner who wields the noose.

Would I be more desirable, if I were beautiful?

I wonder,

as he pushes my face into the mattress, reminding me,

in all too many words that he doesn’t wish to see my face,

not when he is inside me,

and gratifying himself, with a disappointing hole.

For a moment, as he grips my hips, I feel the knot of tears,

somewhere between my cunt, and my eyes,

but in releases into a smattering of cold pain,

like an ice sculpture, falling to the floor,

all over my body.

Inside me, he feels like a warning, to not think of myself,

as human in any way, it is human to aspire to beauty,

and to feel worthy of any desire.

Inside me, he feels like a reinforcement,

to remember that he doesn’t fuck me for love,

not to show me how much he needs me,

but only because I owe that to him,

no matter how vertiginous this cliff off which I am pushed,

I owe it to him to fall.

I could aspire to beauty, heck, if I opened my eyes,

maybe I could find it even without trying,

but there is the warm glow of beauty in the eye,

and there is the eye of iniquity that rests within our souls.

And inside our souls this is who we are,

I am an orphan who pays for love with her flesh and soul,

an unending price to an ersatz father,

who seeks no beauty, only a path of desecration,

and with his odd little heart he loves me,

you just have to close your eyes to beauty to see.