This is something I wrote quite some time ago. Enjoy.
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A confined place: a box, a closet, a tomb, a crate. This is how it always begins: a confined place with barely any air, barely room to move. Barely room to breathe.
Always you hold me down, and I taste the fear, the terror.
I bite my lips: I taste the salt, the metallic tang.
I don't want this.
"Bitch," you hiss, between clenched teeth. Your grip on my shoulder tightens, pushing me against the wall: you suddenly have a strength I never knew that you had. Your fingertips dig into my shoulder.
"Let me go! I thought you were my friend!"
"Bitch," you say, again.
Your hands, your nails turned to claws: they tear my clothing, they rend my flesh, they rend me wide, wide open.
I am in a cold sweat. I am in a fury.
It gives way. It gives way to something hot, wet, and molten.
I hate myself. I hate myself for wanting this.
By day, you are nothing of the kind.
You are my friend: my sister, my brother. You are a little girl playing dress-up in black clothes, you are an angry little boy cursed with the pretense of being a little girl. I don't know, yet, which of these is the truth.
I search for the sign of the person you become at night, and I don't find her. I find only the friend to whom I've told far, far too much about myself.
Next to you, I look tall, silent, prim. You are smaller than me, you are all energy, all ferocity: tiger to my dragon.
I close my eyes. I hope you won't look. I hope you can't see the dreams I have: the dreams that leave me feeling dirty.
At night, it begins again.
You hold my hands down.
"You bitch," you growl: "You dirty bitch. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to own you."
"I..."
The tears begin.
I drag it from the depths of myself, from within, from the place I can't look.
"I... I want this."
The look on your face. Hard stone gives way to flesh.
You reach over with a gloved hand, and stroke my face with a tenderness that I didn't know you had.
"Now you rule me," you confess.
You turn away, head tilted.
I sit up in bed. I am sweating.
The dreams come again, and again, and again.
The shame in this desire doesn't leave.
But you are never again an attacker.
Always you hold me down, and I taste the fear, the terror.
I bite my lips: I taste the salt, the metallic tang.
I don't want this.
"Bitch," you hiss, between clenched teeth. Your grip on my shoulder tightens, pushing me against the wall: you suddenly have a strength I never knew that you had. Your fingertips dig into my shoulder.
"Let me go! I thought you were my friend!"
"Bitch," you say, again.
Your hands, your nails turned to claws: they tear my clothing, they rend my flesh, they rend me wide, wide open.
I am in a cold sweat. I am in a fury.
It gives way. It gives way to something hot, wet, and molten.
I hate myself. I hate myself for wanting this.
By day, you are nothing of the kind.
You are my friend: my sister, my brother. You are a little girl playing dress-up in black clothes, you are an angry little boy cursed with the pretense of being a little girl. I don't know, yet, which of these is the truth.
I search for the sign of the person you become at night, and I don't find her. I find only the friend to whom I've told far, far too much about myself.
Next to you, I look tall, silent, prim. You are smaller than me, you are all energy, all ferocity: tiger to my dragon.
I close my eyes. I hope you won't look. I hope you can't see the dreams I have: the dreams that leave me feeling dirty.
At night, it begins again.
You hold my hands down.
"You bitch," you growl: "You dirty bitch. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to own you."
"I..."
The tears begin.
I drag it from the depths of myself, from within, from the place I can't look.
"I... I want this."
The look on your face. Hard stone gives way to flesh.
You reach over with a gloved hand, and stroke my face with a tenderness that I didn't know you had.
"Now you rule me," you confess.
You turn away, head tilted.
I sit up in bed. I am sweating.
The dreams come again, and again, and again.
The shame in this desire doesn't leave.
But you are never again an attacker.
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