‘Arch your back and keep still, bitch!’
The way You spit it out sounds like venom, and it pierces deep. No matter how much I will my body to do just that, it just simply won’t. It betrays me. And that betrayal forcing me to defy You, kills me. Tears and snot streaming down my face, I just don’t know what to do. I feel a swat across my back. I want so desperately to arch my back for You, but that sting across my ass makes me want to run far, far away. Far away from that pain. And I can’t help but curl under, trying to get away from it. I try to be strong, tough. It hasn’t even been 10 strikes. I feel trapped. 30 is a place beyond my comprehension.
‘I’m not even hitting you hard,’ I hear You say.
Ouch. A different pain. Why do I feel like I’m failing at being punished? I *should* be tougher. I *should* be stronger. I will my ass not to sting so much with each strike and over and over again, it betrays me. And Your precision for honing in on that place that slightly wraps at the side of my thigh… masterful. That! That there is the knee buckling sting.
A thought pops into my head about an article I read recently that said that on a scale of tools, the cane isn’t considered that painful. I have had whips mark the flesh of my back, crop handles used on the soles of my feet, been twisted and contorted into myriads of painful predicament rope bondage ties, and yet standing here, this cane to my ass brings tears to my eyes in less than 5 strikes.
I remember back in the day of believing I had something to prove, when first hearing that people cried during impact, I was astounded, and figured they must be weak. Impact wasn’t that bad! And in all honesty, it actually wasn’t. However, in some ways, it seems like I’m becoming softer and softer the more I experience pain. Or perhaps there’s less defence there now. I’ve made peace with crying.
I give Him my tears. I give Him my pain.
I understand now, it’s not weakness. It’s truth.
‘3 more strikes. Count them, bitch.’
Hallelujah. 3 I can do. “One.”
‘One what?!’
“Thank You, Sir.”
“Two. Thank You, Sir.”
‘This last one is going to hurt. Close your eyes.’
I want to recoil everything that could possibly be sticking out enough to be in the path of that monster biting at my flesh. As You change sides, I try not to watch. Try not to anticipate. Try to simply accept that it’s coming no matter what. It takes everything I have to stand there, as You want.
“Three. Thank You, Sir.”
That was brutal. You wrap me in Your arms. I don’t want to touch You. I don’t want to be near You. I don’t want Your comfort. I want to curl up into myself and cry my heart out.
You hurt me. I hurt me.
Because I choose to be here.
I choose to give You that Power.
I choose to trust that this is what is needed.
