Do you ever think, while on your knees pleasing me, of how much I admire your body? How much I had to sacrifice to get you, to enslave you. No, all you know is suffering. Don't misinterpret me. I smile when I think of this. Your sodden face, covered with tears, spit and puke, only knows the pain of my palm repeatedly hitting your cheek.
Sometimes I wish you'd think again and look at yourself, your admirable figure. Then I remember your place just like you do when you hear my steps coming from the front door.
Living here, you have a roof over your head and free meals exquisitely designed to keep your figure exactly how I want it. Why can't you look at yourself and realize this? You're beautiful in your suffering. You're my dearest skinny girl and I wish the best for you. The best kicks and punches, the best slaps and hair-pullings. I wish that you will give your best every day to please me, but you already do, and I admire you for that and I feel like you should admire yourself too.
You have become the perfect pleaser, you're the queen of your act. Your fake smiles, so afraid, yet so convinced that they'll gain you freedom from the pain. That self-confidence, do you think everyone has that? Not even I would be so confident if I did not have you, o loveliest one.
For Marianne's freewrite