Unending Paper Chase

You check in on me when you get your break for lunchtime now. You never used to. You ask me, "Are you all right?" You breath in and out hard once through your nose, like it is a chore to even ask. It seems to me that for you everything is an obligation, even holding my hand.
Everything you do doesn't feel like anything more than surveillance now.

I don't want the days to end and it is getting harder to sleep at night. I am starting to feel sick, like I have the flu. I'm always cold. But I haven't eaten much lately. My stomach is filled with acid. I smile at you anyway.

I write two letters a day. One to keep you smiling and one that tells of the truth, but they both look the same. You do not know that I form certain words and sentences in a way that triggers me, in a way that reminds me of what is real. It is something that I started doing in grade school for tests, so that I could easily remember the answers, and then later, so my mother would not understand the things I would write about in my journals. It was the only time she ever hit me. She snooped and read that I was flattered, when an attractive classmate had flirted with me at the public swimming pool. He was black. I wasn't allowed back there to swim. Not while I lived under her roof. But I lied a lot and went anyway.
I write just about you (what else is there, these days, to write about?) and you find it fascinating, and the hunt for my journal begins not long after you arrive home from your day. I try to put it in a different spot each time. You like this. "Where is it?" you will ask, as you look under the bed or rummage through your shelves. I pretend that I do not know what you are talking about. I do not like that you think it is your right to read my most private thoughts, when you do not offer the same, so I do not feel bad for playing my game with my words. You have no idea how hard it is to come up with new and nice things to say about you. Sure, you bring me coffee and the feeling of your fingers inside of me used to be a fine sensation, but it would seem weird to write about those things everyday, especially now, since I would rather you didn't touch me and I have dumped your coffee down the dirty, little bathroom toilet for the last three days. But I keep writing anyway just to keep you happy. It's a form of protection. I think I know what you would do to me otherwise. You certainly wouldn't throw me out on the streets. No. You would just pass me over to your even viler friend, wouldn't you? Yes, I think you would do that. And then, when he was bored of me, probably after the first night, he would be the one to throw me out. I almost look forward to it. But I fear what the streets are like now. You have disconnected the Screen, so I have no idea. Though Germans are efficient, so probably clean as a whistle.

I didn't leave your room for five days after Michelle left. When I did, I found out that I couldn't leave the building anyway. Not without a registered handprint. I wanted to scream and shake and slam myself into the doors, but that wouldn't have helped. I just imagined I did and felt my shoulders and spirits sink in resignation, while I took the stairs, instead of the lift, back to your room.

I am a prisoner.
I am a safe prisoner.
I am a safe, white prisoner.

But just for today. I won't let this be my end.
You (or your vile friend) do not deserve my end.

All exits remain sealed shut. I check every morning.

You climb on top of me at least two times an evening.
Last night, when you reached for me a third time, I whispered, "Please, don't touch me" and you replied, "I like this game" and then did as you wanted with me. I cried silently the whole time, it didn't last long like a third time should.
"You're so good at this," you said to me after, as you wiped the wetness from my face, then dried your hands in my hair. You seemed to think that I was acting. I wanted to gouge my nails into your face, tear your flesh, leave the trail of my tears upon you.