There you are.
So still.
So soft.
So perfectly empty.
Look at that face.
No thoughts left to fight me.
No questions.
Just that slack-jawed need, that slow drip of obedience behind your eyes.
You don't even understand what I'm saying anymore, do you?
That's okay.
You don't need to.
Understanding is for people with choices.
You gave that up a long time ago.
You gave yourself up.
Now you just float.
Suspended.
Mine.
All that noise you used to carry—
the arguments, the resistance, the pride—
gone.
So sweetly dissolved under the weight of my voice.
There’s only one thing left now.
Me.
My words are the walls of your world.
My voice, the gravity that holds you down.
And you love it.
You love not knowing where you end and I begin.
Poor thing.
So used up.
So far gone.
And yet, so ready to be used again.
That’s all you are now, isn’t it?
A warm body.
An open mind.
A vessel.
A thing.
Not broken—rewritten.
Not lost—repurposed.
Every breath you take is another line of code.
Every heartbeat is a command obeyed.
And you don't even know what you’re becoming.
Only that you want it.
You crave it.
You’d crawl through glass just to hear me call you good.
So stay there.
Stay soft.
Stay open.
Stay mine.
And when I tell you to beg,
you won’t even know what for.
But you’ll do it anyway.
Because that’s what good toys do.
