Dirty, Bruised Martini

I think about you when he f*cks me.
I think about you when he beats me.
I think about you when he whips me and tortures me and makes me bleed.
I think about you when he rapes me and then offers me to his friends – to the men who hate you almost as much as he does.
All I can hope, to keep myself going, is that sometimes you think about me too.