I am not a person and my words are open and bare boned.
Exposed and open wounded I am pinned and ready for my dissection,
I am ready for my desecration,
I am ready for you to voodoo doll me stick in the pins and watch me writhe.
You, you are unreasonable,
you had and have me at your mercy,
I am on you chopping block.
The only difference between then and now
is that I was scared of you I played your game,
I was begging yes I was at your mercy and I still am,
but you have cut, stabbed, burned, and tortured,
and I have crossed that line of hope.
The hope that the one torturing me might hear my plea,
that he might grant me peace,
that some sense, some shred of compassion might shine,
that he could see I hold in human time,
that I deserve it—was it worth it?
The prisoners of war must reach this place.
I know their desperation-I know the phases
and this is the last one, possibly the safest

Acceptance

because the pain is coming,
the knife is there,
it, you, and I know,
I’m not going anywhere.