Her shirt hugged the cream to the welts.

Everything ached like a vulnerable nerve from a cavity that’s brokeness has been invaded. A whip on the back, chest, and rear.

The desire to please and revere above her own regard. When had it gotten this far?

The never ending cycle of used and then cutoff. A cycle she could not seem to get enough of.

She sat without the presence of neither of her masters. One that raised from the grave, that could pull her out and make a way. The other one with which she stirred the fire, the flame of her inner desires.

She realized that she’d always be the same, if she didn’t get rid of the residue of trauma, the pain. It covered every inch of her body, and she liked it, no matter how much she complained.

She had to be honest if she’d ever change. Awaken,soul, you that ache, burn, or sting. You can rise from this grave, because of the one true king.