One time I kept a hairtie on my wrist for months because someone put it on there and told me to hold on to it.
I have a small white scar, years later, from where it rubbed sore into my skin.
There is still blood seeped into it, sitting in a box even now. I held on to it.
My devotion. Scarring myself, splitting flesh and weeping blood. A whispered command, tripping over myself to follow.
She never asked for the hair tie back. Never mentioned it again, not in the weeks I wore it or the months after I took it off.
Prostrating myself at the feet of someone who isn’t looking.
Waiting for attention to fall on me again and hoping I had done it right this time.
My devotion. Consuming myself for a second glance. Waiting endlessly for her to ask for it back.














