By Izzy Weinstein
Loosely held in the palm of your hand,
Your Midas touch I’d reprimand,
But my impotence at your commands
Cries insolence to my heart’s demand.
Your secrecy marks cowardice,
Detested but I do not challenge it.
I am seemingly so powerless,
Plead mercy but you’re tireless.
I hate the way I don’t fight back,
But curtsy under your attack.
I’m fragile like a paperback:
Your words cut deep and don’t retract.
Embodied as a trauma symptom,
I wonder, is this Stockholm syndrome