Fuck You

Fuck you.
And not the good fun
fuck you.
The angry,
I’m annoyed,
I’m hurt,
fuck you.
I’m ok with being second wife.
I’m ok with throuple life.
I’m ok with
only getting to
fuck you
once a week.
But God
motherfucking
dammit.
On my night,
if you’re not up for it,
if you’ve got other shit going on,
If you’re tired
if you don’t feel well,
it’d be nice
if you fucking told me.
So I didn’t waste my day
thinking about
what we were going to do
and preparing my home
and my body
for you.
I didn’t need to shave
and lotion
and pluck
and wear a stupid
itchy
uncomfortable
sexy as fuck
lace bra.
I didn’t need to spend
so much time on
my eye make up
so that when you
looked down at me
with your cock in my mouth
you would see
my mascara running
perfectly
down my face.
I absolutely didn’t need
to see you
rest your head on
your wife’s shoulder
for comfort
that she didn’t give
when you had been
alone with me
for half an hour
before she got home.
I would have
gladly
comforted you.
I would have gladly
taken care of you.
But I wasn’t given
the opportunity
or the thought
or the consideration.
It also might have been
nice
if you would have found
a fucking moment to
pay attention
to me
to say good night
to me
to fucking bother
to tell me
you weren’t coming home
with me.
What the fuck?
Do I only matter to you
when you’re coming
down my throat?
Do I only matter to you
when you get to
take out your frustrations
on my skin?
Fuck you.
If we’re doing this
then we’re doing this.
And if we’re not,
then we’re not.
Figure it out.
And let me know
when you do.
And until then,
fuck you.
And have fun
not fucking
her.