Abject, hysterical, I find myself on this bed.
You in your mother's chair lash out with all nine.
You don't feel the slice each one scores
from the loaf of inadequacy that makes your foundation.
The sweaty handle grinds; I am hypnotized by the snapping switches:
Four for your pleasure,
four for your fear,
and one for the never-never,
the only gift from you to me besides forever.
Two marks define a line.
Another bed, another whip, this one made of lost friends
and desperate art. I couldn't have let it happen.
I promised to protect myself, but gave the job to you.
You protect me the way a pedophile protects his children.
Salve is bitter poison; I prefer the bite of your unraveled strands:
Five for your quick fingers,
three for your distant brothers,
and one for the lonely guilt,
and the coveted mature emotions, most of which you never felt.
Three marks define a circle.
A final flagelation - a movable one, since I will no longer lie
down. Watching your deceptive cruelty, I see the backlash
is the stronger of your strokes. Blood runs past your mouth,
but no tears. You do not allow the welts to rise until I am gone,
and still the straps are flying:
Three for the good years,
three for the lying years,
and three for the holy trinity,
your weakness, your pride and you, but never me.
The circle has closed.
You are inside it.
I am running, stunned, away.