Stockholm Syndrome Poem by Norman F. Santos

You’re a cellar, a dune, a pit
And if my sparse body can fill you in
I will suffer gladly, you can have me
With your knife in my guts
I’ll bleed everything if I must

This felony, this amity
These strings knotted badly
Must you let go your hold on me?
If you would ask for it,
I would, with denied grudge, submit

I would miss the kiss
Of the cold pistol’s lips
And the tight embrace
Of the rope in my scrawny arms
And your stares, they need me.