The pain of red roses

I woke up to a gentle slap from the sun, reproaching me that my misfortune continued and, unfortunately, was still not over. Five minutes after hallucinating that I was talking to the sun, my alarm went off. With a huge smile on my face, I said, "I finally won!" I finally won something. After my frenzied, sickly joy, it was time for the bath. Do you think ten minutes is too little? I know, me too. I need thirty; it’s more than enough to heal the soul or tear it apart.

I've been thinking about this: did you put this pretty mirror in the bathroom so I could see my sensual nakedness? Or would you prefer that I see and feel the wounds you left me with so much "love"? The contact with water makes me feel free and clean. Did you know I love water? I told you, right? Tell me you did. You see, it makes me feel less disgusting. However, I regret to say that I don’t like the mirror. Mmmm, how do I tell you? It makes my reflection look decomposed, disgusting. I’m not exaggerating when I say I can smell the putrid odor, and it’s all thanks to you, darling.

You have pretty blades—sorry, I meant "pretty hands," hands full of desire, hungry for non-consensual pleasure. Those same hands have left many scars on the body you love so much. Tell me, can you see them?

These pretty dresses you bought for me, or rather, for you, hurt me. How can they be so beautiful and so painful? Or am I the broken one? Tell me, can I be uncovered? Or can I cover myself with something else? Or am I not sexy enough? Someday, will I be able to have roses like those of the sweet, submissive girl dresses you chose for me? Tell me, does it give you more pleasure to fill me with wounds than with pretty roses?

You can tell me how much you like the stories I read to you so you can sleep. Do you really love that I explicitly recount how you stole more and more of my sanity, or rather, my desire to keep being a woman? You said, "I like your moans," but weren’t they laments? Screams of pain or despair, or were they pleas for you to feel remorse and let me go? Please tell me, do you enjoy seeing the tears filled with pain and despair caressing my flushed cheeks while you fulfill your desire to feel more like a man?

Don’t apologize. I’m sure I heard you say, "I did it with your permission." Let me tell you about my curse: I live cursed to cover myself with my blanket of fear, surrounded by my pillows called "what happens if I say no?" "I wish to die, but not here or like this, please." Don’t worry, maybe you unintentionally heard a "keep going" instead of "it hurts a lot." Don’t worry, it can happen to anyone.

Since Superman saved me and took me to the Batcave, I feel better. Don’t worry, it hardly hurts me anymore to feel the marks and internal bruises you left on me. I’m not lying; when I see the thorns of the beautiful red roses, they remind me of the past. But guess what: someone is healing my pain. I just have to caress with her the parts I want to feel affection, good love, caresses that overflow until they fall like drops to the ground. And you know what’s the best part? Those drops are red, exactly, like the color of your favorite roses.

But yes, blooming like a flower, wrapped in the mantle of madness that swears I am healing. However, everyone knows that I will end up spilling blood from my neck with your name marked on the ground.