This is absolute,
withering, estrangement.
My body decaying
on its chassis.
I've left myself,
become abandoned,
and lulled myself into
listless abduction.
Your drunk inside voice is dead.
No synapses firing
in my sullen head.
You'll duly deal us
the card of shame.
You, for sliding inside me.
Me, the gray area of blame.
I could say rape,
But it would give you too much credit,
wouldn't it?
We're both adults,
audited for our extended curiosities,
and austere self-loathing.
You fear what
you claim to know.
Isn't that what fear is?
Refusing to see
your evident woe?
I am lopsided on
what is right,
dictated by people
whom are hardened with fright.
You saw to it that the girl
who felt disadvantaged by
Love's warm hands,
would,
with the help of your disgusting fingers,
be taken advantage of,
all over again.
This time with marks burned on her conscience,
burned in her skull,
burning down her sense
of sexual purpose.
I must have been wet to touch,
for your appetite was
whet too much,
as to let jealousy for me
and distaste of disillusionment
override your drunken
conscience to let me
black out alone,
without you inside me.
Was I sexy?
Did my dead fish move
do something for you?
Did my chest heave too?
Did my thighs clasp your side?
Did you delight in tearing me open wide?
The only time you
could ever be with my body,
was when my vulnerabilities
were bare,
and the girl who would say no,
wasn't even there.
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