I used to date a dominatrix

She was a skinny bone jones.
Breasts were like small bites of
Chocolate Drops, long legs
Carried a head so heavy, you’d
Think she’d topple over into
New York City passerbys.
She’d cry of society’s shallow percipience,
Her beauty a curse.
Confessed that she’d secretly fiend
For impressive intellect,
Marveled at talks of civil rights leaders
And black society in retrospect,
“Black people need discipline, that’s why I became a dominatrix”.
Dominatrix.
She wanted to beat my ass into a passionate
Submission, believed that everyone was a perfect candidate to pay for what her daddy did to her, especially the ones she loved.
she made confessions of her father’s unorthodox stance on family and romance, or rather family romance, since he loved to put his hands in places that only those molested would understand, then she would switch it up and say that she wanted to see welts and marks of pain on the skin covering my spine, it was time for me to pay the price for his crimes, “turns me on to know I’d be the one in control” but she didn’t know, that it was she that was out in the cold, emotionally starving; alone, hoping that the pain she’d cause means she wouldn’t hurt anymore.
But
Control is a trick
Even for a dominatrix.
Just lost in the world of her own sickness.
Her beating on anyone wouldn’t erase her dad’s willingness
To feed her life like a leech in heat,
Mentally stealing her chance at real happiness.
I let her go not too long after that,
But I sometimes wonder if she’s found
Herself,
Or someone new to beat her hurt into.

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