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patchwork narrative - Silence
3 years ago

see the other patches on the tumblr page as well

patchwork narrative - Silence

APR 10 · 2013

These men who think they prey on me,
who desire to defile childhood,
who become mine for their brief transition
into lifeless eternity, what is their compelling
They too are hunters, are monsters.
Perhaps, they too were made such without
Why would a sexually motivated male who
could pay for willing receptacle or even play mate
take on the shame, the venality of demanding
satisfaction from bodies not yet ready for
that trade?
Perhaps it is the power thing again. Patriarchs,
fearless fathers herding familial flocks,
facing wolves and bandits. All’s right through
the dangerous night because I am between
thee and them.
Daddy deserves some sugar, a sweet taste of
my little dependent. Daddy is big and strong and
throbbing. Daddy has an itch, an irritation needing
tending. Daddy wants. There is no practical reason
not to have. We who are strong take from the flock
as we will. We rely on their weakness, keep them
enslaved in ignorance, keep them alive at our pleasure.
It is simple, while the illusion is maintained.
Or so I imagine in this spin into historic scenario.
I have not experienced the pressures, motivations,
imperatives biological or psychological, that inhabit
mortal men. I will never be one, only a monster in
a child’s body, with only the mortal experience of
a servant child. I felt the glorious defilement
offered by my mortal masters as pain. I was not
grateful for their attention. I did not feel honored
to be their momentary reward for all their
self-appointed responsibilities. I understood my
place because it was self-evident. I did not
understand why it should be mine.
Children are given no choice, no social contract.
The adults who grow through their initiations,
ritual scars, climb into manhood, womanhood,
know only a temporal ladder to ordered positions,
attitudes; what contract did they sign?
Of course there is personal responsibility, payment
for choices. But who sets the price? Who really pays?
We all know that game of selling the price forward,
like a hot potato. Those who accept the ultimate
price are so often the poorest. Nothing to pay but
pounds of misery that please no one.
So, yes, I am guilty. I steal life to feed my
unnatural death. I am by definition perversion
itself. I have no excuse. I have no socially useful
reason for being. I can not compare my case to
human waste and expect acquittal or lenient
I can wonder why designated victims don’t rise up,
demand the power of self-sovereignty.
No, I understand, too self-involved, cut off from
solidarity, cut off from realizing the possibility of
self-determination or the energy of purposeful
fusion. Dark, furtive, shamed by unavoidable
sin, the voiceless stay silent.


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