Romantic Slavery

by Elizabeth Johnson

Keep my mouth open for cream. Keep my mouth closed for peace. Bend over for a beating. Keep legs open for punishment. Painfully pleasing, yet mentally exhausting.

I hope I can leave without baggage. Suffering from apoplectic pleasure; driving my affections towards insanity. Quenching his thirst and nourishing with cream.

Am I sexing male or ego; to nurture or for nature?

Routine begins to swallow us in our love nest. Definition of insanity is the mirror over our bed.

Censor every thought; rehearse every word to find the right way to say; I want… I need… You make me feel…

Is this a job?

Yes. He is the head, and pay varies; benefits package varies.

If you have one too many listed on your resume, you are only used on an as needed bases. A temp position without benefits until he finds someone permanent.

Yet, you must come with experience, have an eagerness to learn, and be innovative.

So I fabricated on my resume, and omitted a few jobs to show I had long term potential .

I got the job, but it’s not like the ad in the classified section. This is not traditional work. This is slavery.

I can no longer recognize myself, or see myself outside of uniform.

I don’t remember the last time I wore my favorite color, or my hair down.

The head requires that you to come to work with your hair up at all times. Uniform is always black and/or red.

I begged the universe for new employment, but it’s hard to leave when you have stocks, investments, and a retirement plan in place.

So I come to work daily. Fulfill nourishment both ways, focus on your job, and remain quiet, is what I keep reminding myself to do.

Yet, I’m so tired, and the job is so limiting. I can no longer be myself; captured in my own form...

Form he molded in honor of the last.

Money complicates while cleanliness dissipates, as two worlds clutter one another striving to become one whole.

You can never really retire. This job is eternal.

No, this is slavery. There is no freedom in this love or union. You are forever a slave.

Living to fulfill the needs of others before your own, to get your own.

Can we be free together? Can we converse in silence? Can I trust him with myself? Can I be myself?

All answers are no.

This romance equals slavery.

I slit my throat, silenced my heart, and became free

Only to awaken alone, naked and crying in a fetal position yearning to be held .

The agony of loneliness becomes painfully familiar.

The cycle continues.

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