Let's make you sensitive to pain.
Let's take your mind and implement
a new autonomic system.
One where you flinch from raised hands
and one where you submit to angry voices.
We'll make you sensitive
and we'll make you dependent
and we'll bury you in the dirt until you soften up a bit.
We'll make you into a lawn ornament
and we'll crush your hope in a garlic press
because we like our women fearful.
You'll get to play outside once your wounds heal
(we don't want the neighbors asking questions)
and we'll distract your sorrow with new scars
Isn't it interesting, my love, how emotional trauma
can lay dormant for decades and the next time you
run into your trigger the volcano explodes?
After skin heals it doesn't reopen
but when emotions heal the scabs are fragile
pieces of glass, torn open by yours truly
to reveal your innards-
to prove to the world that your guts are just
as delicate as your eyes.
I want to be your trigger, love, and every time
you think of me I want you to cower,
I want you silent
I want you to understand
that no matter where you go,
you are on a leash
and the electric collar I placed in your autonomic system
will never run out of power.
Anytime anyone raises their hands, even to point directions
you will flinch and your cheek will remember the sting
and you will think of me.
I am your God and even when I'm dead
my remnants will be with your forever.
It's the greatest love story ever told.
The one with raised fists and broken glass
and the inability to escape.
I made you sensitive to pain, my love,
and for that, I made you beautiful.