Work Text:
the phantom whip,
tense and coiled, just shy of a hiss
it's been gone for so long
and yet sometimes at night,
there are still so many of them
on my hands, on my back
the softness of my belly
red, raised and angry, willing themselves into existence
and so I curl myself tighter,
and so I don't advocate,
for the space I've taken up;
and so I obey, and so I conform
my best performance, well-polished from use;
and the audience stands for applause
but the phantom whip still whispers against tender flesh