A Collection of Spectacles


Staring at this empty box frightens me. It’s weird to have a conversation with someone whom you love very much about whether or not things were consensual, if you were playing, or if you really got hurt but in an “ok” way. “No, it was not a game. I was really putting up a fight. Yes, it is ok.” I think I secretly wanted, needed to feel like shit. Sometimes I really want to have my face pushed into the ground till my cheeks are sore, called a fucking slut, and rammed but not enjoy it at all. I found myself on the bed, high and immobile, with my eyes shut tightly, afraid to move. I didn’t want to get slapped in the face again because I hate that, so I just didn’t move. I felt worse for him and comforted him because he is not used to making himself feel bad through “controlled situations” in order to feel better. His therapist called us disgusting. I can’t explain in words why I have these urges, but I figure it’s better that I do these things than spend my whole life running away from pain.

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