La valse des rayons: Apache

It was a long day with you,
that last time. I felt
like a crayon in the corner—
wax, discarded, yet still colorful
as you finished yourself off.
I was some shade of purple,
a violent violet, perhaps.

It isn't pretty watching
while you please yourself.
You're just practical
and crude. I mean, like,
I could wank you too,
if you'd let me.

At least you came in a handkerchief
instead of on my chest.
Thank you for that. Small
gifts are all I get, nowadays.

It's just that I'm almost not alive
for you. Just shadow
or doll or repository,
unflattering as that may be.
I think now that I don't want
your children. They would come
out spoiled and needy, like flies
attacking sugar, laying eggs
everywhere in my
otherwise clean household.

But then, there's your dick.
Don't be so pleased, though,
you're not that big. But
when you want to, you know how
to regulate my temperature
completely. Like global
warming, my ice melts
for you, you bastard. You
strafe my emotions like the Luftwaffe,
and I, like France, lie down.

I'd pull my fucking wisdom teeth
to have you love me,
but you don't love me.
So please, just fuck me sometimes,
asshole. Mi amorata.