Wreck & Reference Obedience
Where was it that bone met blade?
Delicately lowering
your foot into steel trap.
Listening for the creak of the spring.
Where was it that collar met throat?
A bundle of tubes,
squeezed together.
No fluid nor air nor humor there passing.
Where was it that substance met mind?
Chloroformed the reckless
thoughts, their tentacles
flailing you towards you undoing.
We are masochists bound by what?
Not in bedrooms or basements,
but in sunlight and living rooms.
Adorned with chain, gag, cuffs, and leash.
A body wound complete,
in thread of crimson.
A better marionette.
No movement now resistant.
No blemish to resect.
No urge now still delinquent.
No corruption to correct.
No disquiet still insistent.
No words short of breath.
No thought now inconsistent.
No act trailed by regret.
Now master and submissive.
