I think, if I saw you were stood between me
and the only exit from this room, I'd stand,
as some are said to freeze when under fire:
I wouldn't fight, but
not through fear of injury alone.
I'd not resist because there is, within me,
something which finds bliss in being beaten, which
I will not let you
take from me. If the one negotiable inch
of what passes in the space we occupy
is the choice I make to struggle or submit,
that choice I take
that future lovers, future scenes of feeling
helpless safely, remain unpoisoned by this
memory's bleed. Take what you want, and call it victory:
I win by choosing when I choose to yield.