When the line scuds across the water’s surface

I go taut, anticipating the pull, drawing me under.

The lure flashes a smile, does a little dance, before

Lodging itself deep into the flesh of my cheek.

I fall for it every time, then beat myself up for being weak.

Could a part of me enjoy the pain, this endless suffering?

The end of the hook digs in, drawing blood, a metallic taste

Spreading across my tongue. Did I do something

To deserve it? No. Still, I’m a wriggling fish

Flopping in the splash of water, sting of air, at the bottom of his bucket.

(from UNPACKING THE PAST, book 2 of THE PACKING HOUSE duology)