A Thing About Which I Do Not Wish To Write

And yet, here I am. This is partly against my will and partly because I do not have a will.

What do you call someone who simultaneously depletes you of emotional wherewithal, fortitude, resolve, and intellect, whilst also raising your ire and passion? Surely, this person must be called your torturer.

The device of said torture is your heart; It is a device from which there is no escape. All they must do is squeeze a little and you are singing like a canary. No secret is safe–you reveal all.

It seems unfair that someone should have that much control over something so intimate to you. It beats within your chest, but answers their call.

“Traitor,” you say to your heart, as you hope it continues beating all the same.

I do not wish to write about this, but–dammit–what else is a girl to do?