first pass, a slash a light, a whore in the garden. A second strike, felt more diluted than the first, brief, forzen in the limits of its arc. One after one, they grow stronger as I recognize the aim. M’s attempt is to disengage my arms themselves. I had forgotten. I am slightly disappointed and yet, in paying attention to the comings and goings of the whip, begin to feel moreover relieved. A new expectation and rigidity takes over my resolve. Seven whips in I feel no harm, all has gone back, a bucket of disinfectant spools over me. A sort of vision, bedtime mother, I keep the door open, I hide in the folds of the blanket, no harm, no harm, the middle of the room no enemy to receive my protests, for a moment, mother, just a moment, could keep back and teeth in the bed, the drool, the broken waterglass, all is okay, no moments public these private moments kept, for honor, little goose, little goose gone to market, no harm no harm eight nine ten, harm at eleven and let this be a lesson to you, any possible number of accidents means exactly as suffering carried towards, twelve thirteen the right arm snaps clean off as I scream as if it mattered, the sound of deep heavy leather against such slight flesh and bone and then nothing but me, consigned to me, the embellishment of horrors not things that leave you free, though moving towards free in endless number of ways, spurts of blood slicken the floor, my mouth cracked, never shall again, pustules, yes pustules covering all that’s left now anyway, more stories, make nice, speaking from beginnings, they are mine, exactly, the blood doesn’t stop now does it, no getting rid of it, no sense in naming it,
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