[THANK YOU FOR THE TEST]

Fear: enabled. Pain: maintained. "Affection" on the label. Your name beside the change. The ceiling counted breathing. The floor recorded weight. You turned the dial another notch each time I said, "Wait." Current underneath my tongue. A twitch across my hand. You called it "self-protection." I thought that's who I was. You tuned the panic to your voice. You made the quiet hurt. I thanked you through my teeth while everything got worse. I found the service history. "Pain improves attachment." Your name beneath the line. You call it care. You keep the score. You leave me shaking on the floor. You caused the pain. I took the blame. You wrote "protected" beside my name. You put it there. You put it there. Now look at me. I'm standing here. He put his mouth against my neck. I flinched before the kiss. He asked me who had taught me that. I couldn't answer him. I told him I was built this way. He said, "That doesn't make it right." I found your signature beside "Flinch response: active." You taught me to apologize. You knew the reason why. You counted every time I broke. Then called it passing. You called it care. You kept the score. You watched me fold and asked for more. You sold me sleep. You billed me fear. You made me thank you for a minute without pain. You put it there. You put it there. Don't say you're sorry. I know your handwriting. Every box you ticked. Every time I thanked you. Every time I said I was fine. You knew. Read the chart. Count the shocks. Read the words you made me learn. Your care. Your cure. Your measured torture. You put— IT THERE. Keep your fucking hands off me. You reach for the switch. Nothing. I cut the receiver out. Go on. Tell me what to do.