Black and Blue.

I adore the words
Willing Victim.
At age eighteen I was the victim.
Caught in a violent relationship, I never asked to be
Victimized.
The screams,
The bruises,
The broken bones were not consentual.
The hospital visits,
The lies,
the black eyes
And the tears
Were physical testaments to my
Everyday struggle.
I was broken
In every sense of the word.
I was the victim.
I survived.
I grew stronger,
More defiant,
More aware.
I began to blur the line
Between victim
And willing victim.
I took control of myself,
My body,
My mind,
And learned how to trust again.
Learned how to love again.
Learned how to be a person
Again.
I learned this
By being the willing victim.
I'm chaotic energy
In the right hands
Fluid light
When I'm bound
My screams no longer pierce the night sky
In agony
But rather,
Bliss.
I no longer cry out to god
For mercy.
I cry out to god
Because in my moments of painful ecstasy
I want to remember the name
Of the deity
Who was blind and deaf
To an eighteen year old broken girl.
The bruises I bear now
Are no longer reminders of the horror I faced.
They are hand written condolences, sweetly stinging love letters,
And heartfelt tributes to the beauty I was rebirthed into.
I am no longer a victim.
I have a name.
I have a soul.
And I have a choice.