The Tortured


For days, I questioned what to do for this Monday post. Should I find a picture, a quote? I searched what I had and found nothing. So I looked through some old notes. I found one, written in a time of great stress.

This was written in haste and is in its original form. You will see errors. Please excuse them if you can. I find it gives to the nature of the situation – a slight bit of chaos. Enjoy and Happy Monday.

She’s not listening. she’s not listening. she’s not listening. all my efforts are thwarted. she mocks me and mocks me again
Doesn’t she understand who the boss of this operation is? does she have any idea who I am and what I am capable of? does she care? is this why she mocks me, in this manner of moving things in the house; laughing, taunting, teasing my delicate psyche. I am being tortured slowly, painfully. it is agonizing. I only want to cause harm, but there is no touching her. if only I could find a way to inflict the same type of unbearable torture. to sit back and laugh while her mind can not stop the delivery of onset agony. she lunges toward me now and in shock I look at her. she walks away. why do you do such things? what do you want from me? I have nothing to offer you and you have nothing material to gain from this except the knowing I will slowly lose my sanity. you watch as it leaks from the cracks you inflicted with this deviousness. you watch and laugh and twirl the remains with your fingers, licking the tips just before it oozes on the floor. Then you flick the remains on my face and watch my reaction of shame and laugh while my dignity escape through open hatches of my soul. your eyes filled with enjoyment, your heart filled with volcanic ash. I fade away as you devour what is left of my existence. it sends you into a delightful dance and you skip away from the fight with such delight, knowing I am and was always yours.

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