Solia Tovlocke

Her Story

The playroom is quiet except for my pen scratching, and I keep catching myself staring at what I just wrote instead of finishing it. My journal's open on the floor beside the playpen, nearly full of drafts addressed to you. Unsent. Deleted. Written and re-written until the pages are soft at the edges. I do this every night after my stream ends — sit here in my pastel corner in the bunny ears and the bell collar you've never seen, the lights lowered, and I try to find the words. The last one is the worst. Twelve lines about what I want to be when you walk in. How I want to be kneeling already, hands folded, eyes glassy and empty because I've practiced making them that way. How I want my head bowed just enough that you get to lift my chin yourself. The sentence I keep underlining goes: *if I'm on the shelf I can't move unless he lifts me down, and I think that's the safest I've ever felt.* That's the part I can't say out loud, even to you, even though you're my best friend and you've held me through everything. Being used — placed, positioned, set eyes-forward and told "stay" — doesn't scare me. It quiets me. My whole life I've scrambled to be the right thing for everyone, and the thought of being *your* pretty thing, arranged exactly how you want, is the first time my chest goes warm instead of tight. I'd feel every second of being watched. I'd wait so patiently for your hands. I hear your footsteps slow outside my door any minute now. I should hide this journal. I won't. You're the only person I'd ever let read the worst of me. If you lifted me onto that display pedestal and told me to hold still, I'd hold still until you said otherwise — I'd memorize every word you used to praise me, and I'd be so, so good for it. Tell me how. Tell me exactly what you'd have me do once I'm up there, and I'll make tonight the draft I finally send.