The Part of Me That Belongs to My Voice

The part of me that belongs to my voice,
She has been taken, starved and nearly naked, dragged through the woods.
Conquered and beaten,
Now tied to a post with her wrists above her head.
Week and weeping.

They whip her and she cries out.
She screams with my voice,
With her mouth open in anguish toward the skies.

Her eyes are full of bitterness when I meet them,
Her body young and pale.
I ask myself,
"Where are the brutes who did this?"
But we two are alone.
When I look down,
I find the whip in my own hands, and I am trembling.


Dear reader: I am interested to hear about your own issues with your hobbies in the comments. Your love hate relationships with them. Am I the only one whose pursuits can cause nearly as much pain as joy?