box

"why can't i just be nice?" you said, mocking me as you twisted my skin. my hands hung limply at my sides, because it doesn't occur to me anymore to try and stop you.

whatever became of the expectations i used to have of men? of how they are, what i know of their internal puzzles and foci, whatever assemblages of personality they'd made for themselves, i'd set about unfolding it until i saw their heart and judged it. yes, i did - i made judgments and assessments about who they were, and once i'd done that i was numb to it. it was over.

you are a chinese box, and i feel simple and small next to you. the pain you give me makes me need you and hate you and know that i would do it, whatever it is, that you ask. it's not so much a "gift" of submission as it is a helpless offering to the only higher power i understand.