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WOMAN IN CHAINS.
Remember, when I was ‘the thing?’
When I was a chair, just there, with the remote on your coffee table, the cup of coffee you placed next to it, so you just had to lift your left hand to enable, 
you to reach them; 
You placed me there, like the chair.
You admired my face, which became a flag, that made me, your thing, to honour,or disgrace. 
Did you rape me? I didn’t say no, I didn’t speak.
I lay in the bath, whilst salt water, rolled down the black, swollen bulging growth, that yesterday, had been my cheek.
You offered, in a silent command, to help me out, holding a towel, in front of your chest; I knew where I was going. The bed was old. The air was cold, and the sound of the children in the room below, seemed to drown out the rest;  
Small voices, muffled in their detachment and confusion,  of the inexplicable energy, of chaos, and illusion;
And because of these same, sounds-sake, they stifled any, I could make.
And you, marked your territory, like a mongrel dog, peeing on a wall.  A dog without humanity.
In that act, that basic, ugly act, the ‘thing’ felt a shame, and ashamed.
It was then, that the Goddess within, awoke, arose, and began to shine.

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