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She bangs the bars.
She screams out to be set free.
She’s found her voice after years of submission.
I feel her, past stirring, now demanding.
I see her hands, withered, but coming back to life.
I know her – she’s the banished one.
She’s demanding to be heard.
She’s demanding to know who keeps her jailed.
She’s no longer willing to submit.
Barely out of the shadows, the jailer just stands, keys jangling.
Tantalizing her with the taste of freedom.
Taunting her with her own power, stolen long ago.
I feel the jailer’s tyrannical nature.
I see the jailer’s smirk.
I know the jailer fears what it does not know or trust.
The jailer is a heady mix of misogynistic power and the false sense of security that comes from being able to control something, anything.
Just like her, the jailer is welcome.
Just like her, the jailer is me.
They stare at each other, sizing each other up, taking each other in.
She knows her desire is too potent to be contained.
The jailer sees the inevitability of alchemy.
Image: Twelve Drummers Drumming by Winter’s Magic on DeviantArt.com
