tits

Tell me when to set my alarm for. Tell me when I can get out of bed.

Tell me what to eat and when.

Tell me when I can go to the bathroom.

Tell me what to wear- and not wear.

Tell me what I can and can’t get off to.

Tell me what I can and can’t watch.

I don’t see why you should be allowed to sleep when I’m up. Your life is mine, and I want every second of what I’m due.

It’s not hard to keep you awake. You’re chained near me nearly every moment of the day. Your shocker quickly taught you not to close your eyes for even a moment when I’m around. Those bruises and scars taught you not to accidentally doze off when I’m away.

You’re lucky. It’s not like I never sleep. 5 or 6 hours a night. 2 or 3 when you’re unlucky. When you finally got used to falling asleep as quickly as I do it seemed easy for a while. You’d wake up sleepy but nothing too bad. You got used to it. A little sluggish, a little drowsy, but used to it.

Nobody warns you about the effects of months and months of sleep deprivation. You move slower than you did. You can’t think as well. You can barely get out of bed when it’s time. You don’t struggle. Your sleepy eyes look emptier and emptier every day.

I do enjoy the myriad posts about the capture and escape attempts. They’re fun! Everyone loves the honeymoon phase where it’s all fresh and exciting and terrifying. The early days full of sobbing and escape attempts.

But where is the love for the 2 years in? Blissfully mundane tasks in chains used nearly as a formality, a familiar and comforting weight to every movement. The celebration of new ankle monitors with stronger straps and more precise tracking allowing for safe outdoor time together

Don’t forget to love the pay off of having a blissful, devoted, object of your affection. One that knows where home is, has always been.

they do not need to be wound, and they should not be. they wind themselves up, constantly, with the quotidian movements of material existence. it's how they are.