Identical by Ellen Hopkins Page A

up, all I can
    do is laugh. He pulls me to my
    feet. What’s so funny?
    “Nothing. Everything. You.
    Me. Especially me. My head
    feels like it came unattached,
    and my body is all tingly.”
    His grin is pure evil. Excellent.
    I know just how to fix that.
    He picks me up, carries me
    into his bedroom, half throws
    me onto the bed. When he starts
    to undress me, I burst into a new
    fit of giggles. My jeans are so tight,
    he can’t wiggle me out of them.
    “Want some help, my macho
    vampire?” I shed everything
    and he does too, but before we
    do another thing, he asks,
    How ’bout another bowl?
    Something to take you real,
    real low. He leers like a scary
    circus clown. Low as a girl can go.

True to His Word
    He drops me real, real low.
    I’m floating on a poppy sea.
    Naked. Mellow. But a sudden
    wind rouses the breaks and low
    tide builds to major swells. Ty
    kisses me, all fang, pure vampire.
    “Hey. Take it easy.” But somehow
    my body responds to the pain.
    And Ty responds to that, clamping
    one hand around both my wrists,
    pulling them up over my head
    and pinning me helpless.
    It is then I notice the nylon cord,
    one end tied tight to the headboard.
    Ty’s voice is almost a snarl. This
    is one of my favorite games.
    He wraps the rope around my wrists,
    knots it tightly. Escape-proof.
    I shake my head. “Don’t.” But he does.
    Should I scream? Would anyone hear?
    Would anyone care? The obvious
    answer softens my plea. “Please?”
    Haven’t you played this game
    before? I guess I’ll have to teach
    you the rules. The proper response
    would be, “Please, sir.” Say it.
    My heart yells, “No fucking
    way.” But my brain, the part
    that understands my daddy, makes
    me acquiesce. “Please, sir.”
    He flips me onto my belly, yanks
    my legs apart. I don’t have to see
    the restraints to know they’re there.
    The ankle knots do not surprise me.
    I am helpless. Exposed. And, strangely,
    somehow I feel at home this way.
    Say it, he demands, like I should know
    he means, Please, sir. Punish me.
    Deliberate, controlled, he punishes me.
    I whisper into the pillow, “I understand.”

I Understand
    Why Kaeleigh liked the feel of
    slicing her flesh, releasing
    bottled-up hurt. Leather snaps
    against my skin, and I remain
    still
    as stagnant water, afraid I might
    not play by his rules. This is
    a new game, and the sick
    thing is, I see quickly that I
    like
    it, might ask to play again.
    The pain is fuzzy at the edges,
    blurring toward pleasure.
    Maybe it’s the hash,
    the gentle
    arms of opium. And now
    new leather—human, Ty—
    falls softly over the heated
    welts, a soothing
    balm of
    sweat-beaded skin. But then
    heightened pain, forced inside
    me, stuffed inside me. Seared,
    branded, likely marked,
    a moan
    escapes me and Ty surges.
    After, knots loosened, a rub
    of cool eucalyptus oil persuades
    me I do want to play again. Soon.

Kaeleigh
    Long Night
    Unable to slip into sleep,
    unable to fall into dreams,
    unable to lie completely
    still,
    snared by tangled thoughts.
    Sometimes, usually well after
    the witching hour, Raeanne
    comes to me, shares my bed
    like
    she did so long ago. She
    listens to me, soundlessly,
    doesn’t argue or judge.
    Eventually, I slip into
    the gentle
    tide of unconsciousness. But
    tonight she doesn’t appear.
    I am left to wrestle memories
    alone, comforted only by the
    balm of
    cool satin sheets. I force
    my body to relax, feel it grow
    heavy. Heavy enough to sink
    into the satin balm.
    A moan
    bubbles into my mouth,
    from I don’t know where—
    some inconceivable place where
    pleasure and joy are one.

Not Sure Exactly When
    I managed to fall asleep,
    but it must have been eventually
    because I’m tugged like cement
    into morning by the sound
    of the telephone.
    Daddy’s feet pound
    toward the ringing.
    Hello…? Hello…?
    Okay, who the fuck is this?
    Funny, I hardly ever hear
    Daddy curse. He must be
    really pissed. The thought
    is confirmed by his footfall,
    in angry