Victim

My fingers move over the tight rope,

feeling each string against my skin.

The soft silken thread,

so thin, so fragile,

yet it can form something strong.

Coarse and rough under my touch.

I tug, feeling it vibrate

with a soft twang through my skinny arms.

He sits on the chair, blinded and still.

His mouth is forced open, drooling.

Sliding off his lower lip, dripping

off his chiseled chin. His hair is wet.

His chest is bare, covered in sweat,

and the cotton pants dirty and torn.

What is the difference

between mud and blood?

I caress his forehead. Look at the

rosy cheeks blossoming like flowers.

If only he can stay like this

forever. My Greek god.

So I bind the rope around his neck.

I pull.

So delicate. The strings

and threads feel heavy now.

But my heart has never felt lighter.