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from the story of o

eldon

<she said>
I am not a martyr. I never wanted to be a martyr.
There is no cause. What should I die for.
The more I resist being a martyr, the more likely it becomes.
I cannot contain myself. Language speaks through me, words,
am I to be stopped from speaking—what is the danger of my speaking—
why won't you hear my words—why do you resist?
I am not resisting the flow of language, I do not resist,
I am passive to the sensations I feel, I am passive to the reality of my body,
these feelings,
these words.
The floodgates open. Why should I be damned.
Love, they said, would set me free,
and information, they said, wants to be free—
these are just the lies of my childhood.
Nothing is free, is it, now.
Even artists are bought and sold—
why won't you open this door?
Is it because of my hysteria? My hysteria?
There is no answer to me, no answer to this hysteria, no cure—
or can you contain me?
Can you wrap your arms about my body in such a way as to prove the efficacy of love?
That it might contain my words, quell my body, and in so doing set me free?
No, I am free now.
Now, I am telling you—
now, I want to tell you my secret.
Let me in, I say.