Original subtitles

I remember the first time he took me.

The pain was unfamiliar, and so there was no fear of it.

So my heritage is not elaborate.

It's this tiny quiver in the corner when he turns the temperature down and I

crouch, pious, waiting.

Paint blisters under the window.

Hole caved into the baseboard from a fist.

And a blemish round up deep inside me that needs a good slapping.

He could take hours or I'm barely bent over.

In this corner sits my hope.

In that corner, my desire.

In the third, my belief.

In the last, my trust.

Ten seconds.

It took a while to get him to punch me hard in the face.

The scrapes take a fuck of a lot of cleaning.

Once I got tetanus, a needle shot into my butt.

Horrible, unfriendly pain.

those diaper sores.

Raw, carposied skin.

Nine seconds, and it begins to finally fall away.

The small one.

The septic.

Flawed.

Six seconds.

Delirious and whispering to me, he pounds me like putty.

He's begging for clemency.

I know that.

So my heritage is a nervous kiss on a boy's neck behind some skip.

Or a nodding eye passing on a 3 a.m. car.

The aged face unrecognizable.

Some stitch mending a forgotten bruise which gets bigger and bigger.

I don't recall any faces now.

Except one.

He calls me his cunt.

Cunts are so beautiful, he says.

And so am I.

Four seconds.

I plead fake rage and sink into pain and cum.

A few steps away, people meander.

The bank machine spits out cash.

It's overcast.

Or maybe it's all thankfully ended.

Undeformed.

Two seconds.

Descending, jealous of my silence, he pisses.

I fart blood.

One second.

I never feel crushed here.

I touch on complete here.

Earth is quiet for once.

Then it leaves, as it does.

My asshole tightens, defiant.

I wait for a voice to say, it's over.

Your time has come. It's only flesh and bone.

But no one speaks.

Even now.

So my heritage is in that faded adolescence.

The jab of a morphine drip and saying sorry as I tear the vein.

Pushing the same old tube down the throat and catching the eyes asking me

to stop.

The winter was in its first violence.

The air chilled.

The war's over.

The dead don't tell.

And I stare back at my waist.

The half-open door and cold piss.

And I'm content.

I get up and manage to dress myself.

This little boy playing friendly monsters.

You want to cut out my tongue.

I am mute.

But I remain.