Therapy

I brought the whip down
on my exposed skin.
Backwards swing, backwards
swing, backwards swing. The
hooks at the end of each leather
tassel tears, pulls, and snags on my
back. Warm blood flows freely
and gathers in small puddles on
the stained carpet. I stretch, I cringe,
I gasp. Tall mirrors surrounding
me reflected a shaking body.
Oh the sting, the abuse!

The sting of the abuse is fierce,
but not as fierce as the rage
in my curling fist. Forward it flies,
the fist, into a mocking mirror.
Fragments of glass scatter like a flock
of birds to escape its rage, the rage
of me. I admire their beauty, shimmering
diamonds in the dim light; but they are
not as beautiful as brownish pink scars
and gaping wounds.

“More,” I command myself, “I need
more.” More scars, more wounds,
more abuse. Backwards swing tears,
backwards swing pulls, backwards
swing snags. Yet still the mocking
mirrors laugh. The mirrors they love
abuse, to watch it, to command it,
because they know I need the pain.
I’m not allowed to leave until the shiny
surfaces are satisfied. Pleading eyes
meet with me and me and me. I laugh,
I nod, I shriek. I’m not done yet.