left

victim and abuser, both bound in their own form of imprisonment.

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does it worry you
that when my skin
aches
it is only in
my dreams of you?

does not shame
creep into your smile
at the sight of
my fractured form
exposing veins and tendons
whipped clean of skin
by your leather whip
made from the leather
of your book of
empty lips

bones stripped of
their need to support
shatter to pieces
under you

I am left here
existing in the deep
sadness in my sleep
but you,
drifting bird,
will never know my
freedom
because you wear the
same ropes
you bound me with
etching themselves
deeper into you
until you become
one and the same

For you, I feel
deepest sympathy

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the queen and her crown

This is a contemplation piece of the traditional role and characteristics of a woman in relation to a man. There isn’t much of a resolution but I do wish to explore such in future pieces.

Your back felt firm beneath my fingers
All your life you stood proud
back straight, waist girdled and chest puffed up to the sky
From your first breath you spoke power
At the sight of your difference the world bowed
bowed beneath your back
bowed beneath your chest
slowly submitting to nothing more
than the space below your waist
the world between your thighs


As your sacred realm grew
so did your esteem and ego
And there THEY tell me
There, below Him lies my purpose
And so I cowered below your waist in search
Only to find nothing
After nights of deep motion
And endless devotion
I am left numb
And as you reach your climax
I am left with nothing but a whisper
floating from the shadows


You have stood behind His back
You have bowed beneath His chest
And cowered beneath his hand
You have placed both body and soul at His feet
But still you are nowhere to be found
Have you found yourself?
Where are you my child?
Where are you looking?

I have tasted the depths of His manhood
And my lips have embraced the nothingness of His name
And I find that nothing exists in it nor around it
Nothing for me, at least
I do not belong here
I am no more in Him
than He is in me
Our fleshly entanglements are but
Fingers running through the wind
Meaningless
Cries the Queen
While hanging from the throne of a beggar

by L J Tausili