Young – child – old. Victims. Victim. We are an exclusive club. An elusive club. Prick us, we do not bleed. Kick us, we do not bruise. We give up the holy ghost and sanctify the trembling name of woman.
I am a victim. My life spins round and round out of control. It is not my life. It is not yours. It belongs to anyone who can grab it and pull it and squeeze it. Everyone is its master. I wait. I wait in silence. Are you kind, are you cruel? What will it be, a slap, or a pet? I never know until it is over.
I am a victim. I wait. I wait for things to happen. I wait for things to stop. What hand starts the motion, what hand stills it? I wait. I know gravity does not exist, Spring may not come and if we are not careful we will fall from the edge of the world.
I am a victim, a child. I live close to the floor. Scrambling. Trying to do the right thing. Trying to say the right word. Frantic. Looking for a magic incantation that will make me good enough for him to stop. For this spinning to stop. I watch carefully trying to guess what cannot be guessed. To see what cannot be seen. Close to the floor. There is no way out of this room. No doors, no windows, not a sliver of an opening to squeeze out a hand, a foot. I live close to the floor. Scrambling. And I hate myself for it.
I am a victim. I fight because he is wrong. I give up because he is right. I fight even when I have forgotten why. Even when I believe what he believes. Even when I have become what he says I am. I fight in small ways. In pathetic ways. It makes me sick. How weak I am. If others could see I would make them sick too. Try to drift far away.
Don’t let him make you cry. Don’t let him see you frightened. I can never keep it up. I always fall apart. I keep trying in small sorrowful ways.
He is my lifeline, he is my beast. He gives me love and he takes it away. He caresses my face while his boot is on my neck. I never know if I should hate him or be grateful.