it's okay, i'm patty hearst
To Robert I'm a super model angel that eats specialty foods off of little dishes. I have cats, I love the color blue, and everything is neat and pristine. Robert sees areas for improvement. He tells me he has to write what those improvements are and that, eventually, I’ll have to come to them on my own.
Every minute with Robert is like-- chaos. Like cutting open a wrist and knowing I'm going to do it while I'm putting pressure behind the knife. I just know Robert's going to twist the skin so he can watch it bleed.
Robert calls me the perfect Alpha, but sexier. I have good manners, and not only do I eat things off little dishes-- I use little utensils as well. I get along with people. I have hot sex with my husband. Robert thinks I live on Mars, because I'd make a better gypsy, or spybunny. He thinks I should be crazy.
I walk away from Robert and I feel unsafe. Like I shouldn't turn my back-- one second around and he'll have me pinned to the wall-spread eagle and twitching. Prying up my meat with a serrated teaspoon, licking his lips like he'll tear me apart--
Robert likes that me and my man get along. He wishes we had room in our place for a pet. Something we could keep in a cage by the door and throw it bones. He thinks we like monsters and he'd love to be one.
He pictures me sweeping his cage, the boy chained to the wall while I clear debris. He thinks I'd let slip a comment-- so unlike me-- saying of a neighbor, "I could eat her face...” Robert offers, but only to be helpful.
He says he's waiting for Mrs. Wrong, and I'm so goddamn Mrs. Right. I tell him I'd let him dirty me up. Bruise the good girl inside me. Thinks I'd suck his blood and poetry dry and scorn him for not having enough to satisfy my dark thirst. Says it with an open vein, tilted head-- offering up.
I push him away because Robert says always get up from the table hungry. Hunger is the best spice. Crime is another. Blasphemy is more obscure but no less delightful. Fear compliments Shame but they only taste good with Love. Love makes everything taste better. Less can be more, but enough is too much.
It's a night of reduced trust. He's still whispering from the shadow of an alley-- We'll mix burnt umber, cadmium yellow, with lithium white, cobalt blue and flat black. We'll stir in some rouge noir, a fresh plum and powdered butterfly wings. We'll make a fine mess. I'll start fasting today. I'll save my daily ration of crumbs, hoard them up. When I hand it over to you it will be a thick, rich, sweet, piquant syrup. I'll give you a taste for free.
I don’t tell him, but I think I’ll die choking on him, and I won’t hate it one little bit.
Every minute with Robert is like-- chaos. Like cutting open a wrist and knowing I'm going to do it while I'm putting pressure behind the knife. I just know Robert's going to twist the skin so he can watch it bleed.
Robert calls me the perfect Alpha, but sexier. I have good manners, and not only do I eat things off little dishes-- I use little utensils as well. I get along with people. I have hot sex with my husband. Robert thinks I live on Mars, because I'd make a better gypsy, or spybunny. He thinks I should be crazy.
I walk away from Robert and I feel unsafe. Like I shouldn't turn my back-- one second around and he'll have me pinned to the wall-spread eagle and twitching. Prying up my meat with a serrated teaspoon, licking his lips like he'll tear me apart--
Robert likes that me and my man get along. He wishes we had room in our place for a pet. Something we could keep in a cage by the door and throw it bones. He thinks we like monsters and he'd love to be one.
He pictures me sweeping his cage, the boy chained to the wall while I clear debris. He thinks I'd let slip a comment-- so unlike me-- saying of a neighbor, "I could eat her face...” Robert offers, but only to be helpful.
He says he's waiting for Mrs. Wrong, and I'm so goddamn Mrs. Right. I tell him I'd let him dirty me up. Bruise the good girl inside me. Thinks I'd suck his blood and poetry dry and scorn him for not having enough to satisfy my dark thirst. Says it with an open vein, tilted head-- offering up.
I push him away because Robert says always get up from the table hungry. Hunger is the best spice. Crime is another. Blasphemy is more obscure but no less delightful. Fear compliments Shame but they only taste good with Love. Love makes everything taste better. Less can be more, but enough is too much.
It's a night of reduced trust. He's still whispering from the shadow of an alley-- We'll mix burnt umber, cadmium yellow, with lithium white, cobalt blue and flat black. We'll stir in some rouge noir, a fresh plum and powdered butterfly wings. We'll make a fine mess. I'll start fasting today. I'll save my daily ration of crumbs, hoard them up. When I hand it over to you it will be a thick, rich, sweet, piquant syrup. I'll give you a taste for free.
I don’t tell him, but I think I’ll die choking on him, and I won’t hate it one little bit.