dressing for dinner

I’ve given you license
to do what you please. And
what you do is what I need.
It’s a mutual disease,
but what makes me smaller
makes you grow big.

Like smashing plates
at a Greek wedding
or cracking a champagne
bottle on a new ship’s bow
breaking me is a gesture
of your cultivated style.

Bloodied by your cane,
bruised by your fists,
my flesh is an aperitif
for your cultured tastes,
and our banquet a dark
feast of our symbiotic wish.

I play the begging slut
salivating for your cock
and trembling like a leaf
under your manly chic.
I’m filled with your seed
and I give you my tears.

My self-esteem lies in shards,
feral terror fills my eyes,
nervous tremors shake
my hand – mementos of
the lunacy eating my soul
and feeding yours.