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(a collaged poem)

One deep breath, in and out.

Who am I? Who does this kind of thing?

"Look at me."

"Use your words."

butterflies goes batshit inside me

Don't scream. Do. Not Scream.

kneeling on the floor

I become a husk of myself, obscene mannequin

This is what it feels like to step outside of yourself.

It's overwhelming, like knives, a deep purple keeping her trapped, helpless

stop her from inhabiting her new female form

A woman, not old, not young

Her own name, her own time.

Her own body to do with as she wishes.

Her own mind.

unfair to have her dreams dashed so young.

as we pulse and twitch

The pain I feel at first swirls, shifts, and transforms

voice is muffled through the thick wood.

shame, in front of a witness, tousled and trembling

from being watched. tongue tasting the empty space

up her neck like a strangling vine.

To the left the vast bed waited

grab me

pin me

dissect me,

unwilling to stop touching

ripped apart sinewy flesh.

"I'm fucking filthy."

The script has served me so well for so long.

Who cares? Me. I used to care so much.

I used to be too much.

I need external pain

I hardly know who I am

She closed her eyes, lifted my shirt, and

allowed her hands inside me.

pressed meat into the machine

quiet and terrified.

My head is spinning, almost like with vertigo.

The room is almost silent.

people come with razor-sharp teeth

They feed on each other, the sensation of the trade.

But as I let this stranger grind me

move around me, drinking me in

I still refuse to look at myself.

my breath saws in and out of my lungs.

weight pinning me to the mattress.

flesh against flesh.

a sob and a moan.

knocking against my sternum like a hammer

so hard, so fast, the echo of it nearly deafens me

Every part of me pulsated to the wild rhythm

A stark and horrifying testimony etched into my flesh.

Sense memory crashes into me out of nowhere.

There on the ground was a backpack and a girl attached to it.

She smiles, but her palms are still damp

I'm not that girl anymore.

I was a broken thing...

Another being.

Her daytime masturbation was, in part, about desire.

"Is that why you're looking at it on the Internet?"

"Not another word."

tainting the desire is despair.

it's like I'm transforming into another person.

I close my eyes and imagine this person into being.

mapwork of traumatized flesh

savoring its little squeak of protest,

I love my life. I love my family.

V for victim in my flesh

multifaceted sadistic violencepleasure