Five Second Slave
Whips. They’re flames of hatred about his body; cutting deep into the flesh and making him bleed.
Cords. Wrapped around his neck; wound tightly, softly, then tightly again. And it manipulates the speed of which he breathes- manipulates the way he walks; the way he speaks.
But never the way he thinks, and the things he believes.
This poem is about:
Our world