You Don’t Love Me.

While I hold my half empty bottle of sweet smelling red wine,
I look at you in dismay,
Because, you don’t love me,
You just love the way that my hips sway,
And twist and turn.
Knowing it doesn’t matter how far I drift,
I would always return,
To a place of convenience.
And once again it was your turn,
To have and to hold,
My physical form.
Because frail as I am,
I’m a perfect shelter from your temporary emotional storm.
A replacement, a substitute,
A woman willing to conform.
You don’t love me, you love that I can perform,
Tips and tricks like you’ve never seen before,
Do you find your mind wandering?
Are images of me still lingering?
In your mind, your memories,
Your deeply buried fantasies.
You don’t love me, you love that I’m broken.
Hurt beyond repair,
Clearly forsaken.
Tossed around like I was theirs to share,
Theirs to acquire. Theirs to devour.
Just let me be while I ache in silence.

A.

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