i spent my childhood outside.
screams and rough slaps punctuated
dinner time, and the wind became a familiar feel.
“didn’t i want it? why would i act like that
if i didn’t? why would i misbehave, bare my teeth and bite
if i didn’t want this?” pull the collar tight and watch me
beg for more. i whine out my forgiveness, waiting for a
drop of love, and i begin to wonder, what if this is love?
chained to a sharp, rusty fence, waiting for warmth,
i watch the sun go down. i am loved, my mother says.
i am safe, my mother says. she locks the dog door.
i learned to slip by, padded paws across carpet,
trained my ears to know their voices, trained
fear into my heart, traced love into my heart,
but no reward awaited. no gentle touch, just
another chance to put my training to use. i
grew up, perfect and pristine in all the ways it
mattered. i grew up, colourful and careful, in
all the ways nobody noticed. it ached.
in the glow of rose vanilla candles, im pinned.
i lie in bed, hit after hit, asking for more, bleeding. i
come, and ask again. it feels good, shouldn’t it? why should it?
i smile, sobbing, and ask for more, until i cannot no longer, when i
come and come to, to soft caresses and carefully spoken coos.
this is love? i whisper. i am safe? i question. i embrace my neck.
outside, the world sands down my past, icy and frostbitten.
i stay inside. it is warm, and there is no rusty fence to hold me
back, and as someone's arms surround me, i know
this is love.
in a way.
i think this is pretty okay tbh