As I Endure

 

Sometimes I wish myself insane

so that the only danger I face is psychological

and everyone else,

my loved ones,

have nothing to fear.

But they sound so real,

Feel so real,

that I know they must be.

My only hope is that they can take what they want from me

and are satisfied.

To prevent them from turning to anyone else,

I cry in all the right places

and clutch my fear close to my breast;

unwilling to admit that they have transformed me

into something that waits for them,

eagerly.

If they knew that,

even for an instant,

I enjoyed their touch,

I would lose all interest to them.

What keeps me truly afraid

now

is that I am no longer sure if it is out of concern for others

that I endure their visitations,

or if it is that I have become something

that cannot live without them.