I'm exhausted. Work has been insane. I come home drained with nothing to say. Oh, I can get into these intense e-mail exchanges with the sadist, distracting him with images of my pallor and my throat and my butt and my vulnerability. But poetic inspiration?
Yesterday it felt as if he were mad at me. He was miserly with his words. But more than that, through the pixels on the page, I felt his disapproval.
He said he didn't realize he was pissed at me until I asked if he were.
And then he let me have it. He really hates it when I don't perform, when I waste my talent. His disappointment is scathing, and he doesn't accept any crap excuses.
He is so good for me.
So he set me an assignment, with deadlines, giving me structure for my creativity. The main thing is that I should be working.
And now I am.
He gave me a mere 7 words tonight.
Seven words in response to my first installment.
I am pleased that you are working.Approval without warmth.
But his expectations drive me.
This is the man who beat me for a bad sonnet.
He thinks a lot of me
and demands a lot of me
and I will be worthy of him.