by Nick Gisburne
Their questions are bewildering, oblique -
Erratic accusations, stained with hate.
I cannot know the answers that they seek.
A puppet, I was nothing. I was bait.
I’m not the source. The evil did not rise
From any dream or darkness I possess.
I see the trick, too late. Its twisted lies
Have led to this. Degraded, I undress.
The pain is clean, astonishing, intense.
Imaginative tortures, tools, techniques,
Explore the curves and cracks of every sense.
Between my screams a smiling woman speaks.
Her breath becomes a whispering caress.
“Take peace. Take sweet release. But first, confess.”
