Stumble fall
Anxiety dissipates
Leaving the shattered remains
A broken puppet to its designs
The lie
He tells to make him feel better
That it was all anxiety
That it wasn’t his fault
But it is
It was
Pay attention
Wake up
Done
ownership
Lowercase
I will make a canvas of your skin
In blacks and blues
In swirled greens and yellows
In words pressed deep into flesh
My marks will bind us
Deep as the soul
This possession of all that you are
Belies the truth
Your total possession of me
Looking up
Tears
Eyes pleading for one more flick of the lash
The key to your ownership
Words drip like heroin
“Thank you, Sir”
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Taunt of Morpheus – miss
Bare metal against skin
Sharp indentation as chain bites into hands
The soft cold feel, silk across eyes
The feel of fingers, moving in slow circles
The flat of a blade, following the same path
Hand settling in, the feel of thumb against throat
The pressure, hinting but never quite cutting off breathe
A line of fire, the wet meets cold air
The slow press of him
His weight pinning
Slowly entering the place of rightful worship
Blaze of heat throbbing inside
Teeth scraping and biting
Grinding in, marking her as owned
This lingering taste of her
Slides away as he slips free from sleeps shackles
Pelgris 