u/IndividualRespond378

when i wake up in the middle of the night too hungry to fall back asleep, i put a hoodie on over my nightie because i dont want to run into you while im braless in the kitchen. i hate it when you creep at my awkward sideboob and nipples poking through the thin fabric. sometimes i feel like you’re leering and sometimes i feel like you’re glowering and sometimes i feel like you’re planning on killing and eating me. i hate it and i hate you and i hate myself for feeling so weird all of the time.

the wooden floorboards always creak when i go down the stairs. i try to shift my weight as carefully and subtly as possible but it’s no use. my efforts don’t even dampen the sound. still loud and grating as ever. it’s a part of living in a 150 year old house. another thing to hate i guess. 

the stovetop light is still on and before i even step through the archway i can make out your shadow at the kitchen table. i wish i was an only child. i would also take dead. i tell myself that i’ll live alone one day but i don’t really believe it.

“what the fuck are you staring at?” you spit at me, sitting up a little taller. you check your phone. 

the only thing that comes out of my idiot mouth is “sorry”. i’m still just standing in the archway, frozen and overwhelmed and making it worse. i don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. i force myself to enter the kitchen. tense and jittery and robotic i grab a random box off of the snack shelf in the pantry. i tell myself to play it cool and try to not acknowledge your existence. i’ve found the only way to handle being around you is to to pretend nothing is happening. to be flat and affectless. you get bored quicker when i don’t give you the satisfaction of a big reaction. 

my brain suddenly supplies me with a lurid vision of what you might look like naked and a weird unpleasant memory of the way your skin smells. i want to pour bleach on every part of me, drown in it. delete my thoughts like they’re computer files. maybe a total personality and memory wipe. the idea of being nothing at all doesn’t sound so bad.

i robotically head back to my room, as fast as i can go without seeming like i’m rushing. i feel too nauseous to eat any of the granola bars i grabbed. i spend the rest of the night staring at my bedroom door. i don’t know why. 

i feel so trapped by the cycles of violence in my life and my student debt and misogyny and ableism and american politics and my upbringing and the flashbacks i get when i try to go in public and my learned helplessness and my defeatist mentality and my hardwired instinct to give you what you want and my track record of failure after failure to ascend the abuse i’ve experienced and be anything more someone else’s victim

and its just like ? whats the fucking difference? trapped is trapped is trapped

at least things would be a lot more straightforward with a too-tight collar around my neck. i won’t be constantly saying stupid shit if i have a gag in my mouth. in my current ecosystem, trying to survive under capitalism without pushing myself to my own death in the process feels like a type of predicament bondage. so bring out the nipple clamps and the crotch rope and uncaring vibrators and mechanized dildos and anal hook and whatever else you have up your sleeve to keep me teetering back and forth on my tiptoes, unable to find substantial relief from any source of pain or unwanted pleasure, wincing and whining with my wetness dripping down my thighs, eventually puddling underneath me. 

maybe i write and post this shit for you because if you cum to my trauma and all of my crying and my fuck-up-ness, at least something good comes out of it. your libido has the power to give me any kind of meaning or worth. i should be thanking you for using me to get off. thank you

whenever i try to have normal, consensual, vanilla, healthy-ish sex, i spend the entire ordeal trying to keep myself from thinking about the times i was raped, basically ensuring that rape is all i can think about. at least i don’t have to pretend to be normal when you have one palm clasped around my whiny mouth while your other hand is stretching out my sore cunt. i don’t have to pretend that sex doesn’t make me feel sick. i don’t have to hide the fact that it makes me terrified whenever someone is attracted to me. you love and accept me for who i am when you rape me. when you force my legs apart and tie them down at the joints to ensure i can’t close them, you’re giving me the opportunity to exist as i truly am. i am my truest self when i’m blubbering and helpless and uselessly squirming as someone better than me takes what they want from me. i’ll probably never like it but i quickly get used to it. i trade my dignity and autonomy for belonging and purpose. you frequently remind me that it could be much worse.

i’ll pretend to hate you when you give me exactly what i’m asking for, but i won’t try to leave. when you corner me in a parking lot with a chloroform soaked rag, you’ll undress my limp body and find that my twenty seconds of struggling against you was more than enough to leave my pussy puffy and completely soaked. you haven’t even touched me sexually yet. my body just knows what its good for. and once i’m broken in and accept my place as your stupid little rapedoll, i’ll thank you for saving me from my miserable life of trying to be a real person.

when my bffl sexually assaulted me, i stared at the ceiling and remembered how it felt to stare at the ceiling when some girl i barely knew assaulted me. i was freshly eighteen and she was in her early twenties. the memory is almost recursive, because in that moment, i was trying to trace back where this overwhelming sense of deja vu was coming from and dragging up nothing but dead ends.

its a terrible talent to have, but i consider myself to be very good at being abused. i like being good at things. before the incident with bffl, i got very good at school and writing and being a friend to the people in my life. but then i stopped writing and was forced to go on an academic leave of absence and my friendships started to drop like flies. it wasn’t that sudden. i think i put up a decent fight all things considered. i probably would’ve been better off if i’d given up sooner.

i say this to try to somehow justify what i’m chasing, but i think it might just make me feel worse about what i’m doing. i don’t know how anyone could do this and not feel bad about it. my ego finds comfort in the way i genuinely hate it, but maybe i like hating it too. i make myself sick. the sickness feels realer than just about anything else. who cares. i’m just here to give you something to sink your teeth into while you get yourself off. i hope i do a good job at it.

you’re definitely taking advantage of me but i don’t really care. i pout and whine about it sometimes but i’m easy enough to soothe. i really just want reassurance and affection and security. i’ll put up with just about anything for the sake of love. i keep trying and failing to be anything but a victim. its not your fault that i am the way i am. if you weren’t using me, it would just be somebody else. they would probably be a lot worse. 

maybe its not roleplay and you’re actually raping me. it sure feels real when i’m hyperventilating and sobbing and choking on my spit underneath you. sometimes i try to leave you but we both know i don’t have anywhere else to go. you’re basically doing me a favor.

even when i’m stiff and frozen and staring blankly ahead, my pussy still squirts and spasms around your fingers. i always cum harder when you give me flashbacks. with how reactive i am, i’m probably trying to make myself as hot of a rape as possible to keep you around. maybe its a fawn response and i think if i give you what you want it’ll increase my chances of survival. i make a really good rape victim. i love you telling me that i’m good at something more than i hate the “rape”.

you can do just about anything to me. i make it easy. when you’re bored, you turn to the cruel and unusual, performing experiments on me and recreating scenarios that should only exist as fantasy. the human body is not supposed to go what you put me through. full days in total bondage. overstimulated and left to suffer in my own cum and piss. i disassociate to get through it. the pain of a wooden horse. the confusion and betrayal of you lending me out to your friends. the humiliation that i’m letting this shit happen to me again. i’m your passive little doll, reduced to nothing but an object. i hope if i’m a toy, i’m at least one that you cherish. when you’re sweet and gentle and taking care of me, it almost makes the abuse the happened before worth it. i’m such a fucking sucker for anything resembling love.