The Cry Shot
Forgot your own name some months ago. Reinvention is the reason you leave when he asks you to go, from college dorm to his condo to be dressed in organza puffy sleeves, oversized JoJo bows in your hair, turned over to a “nanny” when he leaves — though this one’s only credentials are an obscene imitation in porn. Plays you one where she spanked her employer with a thick bouquet of blooms in her fingers, offering only the thorns.
Impressed him enough to procure her, like you, a girl he renames Dove to return to a childlike state to — if not undo, erase what she suffered before. Met you in a neurolinguistic programming chat room. After he heard your sad incestuous childhood story, he swore to replace it. Give you a childhood again. Nap when he tells you. Confess every fantasy, sin.
Open your legs to strangers because he knows best who and what’s right. Bathe every wound they inflict in his honor. Turn you on and your Hello Kitty nightlight for tales of bad girls he hopes you to turn out to be, raised this time without abuse or Christianity, just consensual use, with some bruises, and some iPhone videoed tears.
Collates digital files of you sobbing into labeled DVD’s reflecting the seasons and years of indignities. Revisits them while you are sleeping when he is in need
of release — how many ways will beauty suffer for your insatiable beast who placates his needs with these records to give you some peace? Bespoke porn he directs and demands to service his own special niche where the most climatic scene is not a cum shot. It is the closeup of a splotched, wet, weepy face of a womanchild who should run but will not.
Horror Sleaze Trash 