Little poetic dribble from Scars and Stripes.

I patiently wait for his eyes to open.
Right by his bedside, in the outfit he picked out,
tugging lightly at my collar. So tightly
he clipped it on, and only he can take it off.
He never will, I know this much.
Yet if he loosened it enough for me to
not have to choke the air I breathe,
I would still be by his side.

He doesn't believe me. Last night,
As he locked the door and pinned me
to the wall, he told me directly. To him,
I'm a bitch on a leash, faithful only when
there is nowhere to go, yet will betray
my master as soon as the door is opened,
as soon as he is out of sight. 

My master..
Even if I wished to betray him,
Even if I was given the freedom
of an open door, a night without
my collar or shackles to keep me bound,
I would never. Because the reason
he shackles me is so that he
can be free.

I shift uncomfortably as his eyes open,
yet regain composure like that of a trained
soldier. He would say I'm brave like one.
He glares at me, I stare back, not showing
any fear. "Good morning. Master." Strained
are my words, yet that eases him. Somehow.

I give him room to sit up, bow while
he gets out from under the sheets.
"Mina." I perk up, my lips meeting
his on impact. His eyes are open,
watching my reaction. I play into it,
close my eyes, let one hand land gingerly
on his shoulder. He approves, sweeps his hand
under my skirt and pulls me closer.
I wince as he traces the gashes he created
nights before, yet that causes him to scrape
deeper into them. I yelp, he pulls me even
closer. "Master.." I breathe into his lips,
and he grants me some air.

 Our eyes meet again as I catch my breath,
and I search for some emotion other than
lust and hatred inside those perfect orbs
of melted copper. Nothing still. I wait
for him to kiss me again, yet he simply
stands there, hands in places I've still
not gotten used to, staring through me.

"Is.. something the matter, sir?"
My voice is soft, sifting the peace through
the pain. I let the concern
show in my eyes in hopes that he
might see it to no avail. He pushes me aside,
looks the other way as I fall, and walks to the door.
"Master." I call one last time, wait for him to stop,
and as he turns to me, I lift both of my wrists  up.
I don't have to say anything after. He manages a smirk,
locks the door again, and grabs the shackles.

"I've taught you well."

Ever since the fire all those weeks ago,
I've consumed a whole new identity.
I was no longer Penny Thorsen, servant
to the most polite and grateful nobles
in town. I was Mina, slave and slate
to their beloved nephew whose career
and sanity also were extinguished on
that night. He inherited my body,
and turned it into something only he
would appreciate. I am his canvas.
His American Flag.