05 May 2008


Like string beads on a monks neck, the years rolled on with your presence pressing down on me like a finger along them prayer beads. My heart restrained, and my mind wandering to a time when I found you enticing. I was stuck, like bubblegum on curly hair, I could not seperate myself from you.

When the warmth of the women that passed turned cold on your bed, I crawled into the sheets, my shame out the window. I put my arms around you, while you slumbered on and brought you close to my body, begging what the other women got liberally. If I was a dog, I'd be licking your feet in gratitude, for a life that was given so easily. To think back, when you pronounced your palms on my face, I felt nothing. Now, I feel everything.

Every frown line on your face, like waterways along sparse ground, spell trouble. I juggle my emotions like popcorn in heat, try to make you happy. And if you notice me at all, you say nothing. You do nothing, and as summer after summer passes by, with wilting plants and torrential rain, I fade in your brightness. To you, I might as well be the cheap hanging frame on the wall. Brittle and dry, easy to break.

And Fanny came along. My joy. An accidental miracle, conceived after a night of your drunken self hurriedly satisfied its urges on this servant. If you noticed the bloom, you did not say. If you noticed her cry, you did not say. All you did was wash your anger out on me, watched me bleed while she wailed. And you grab some beer from the fridge, and walk into the shower, to leave a few minutes later to be greeted by another one of your women.

I wonder now, if they knew. That you were a child inside, a monster man outside. Perhaps they did, and they liked it too. To feel so powerfull or maybe even lucky. Glad I was keeping you happy, that they didn't have to replace me or substitute me. Because they knew, if they had to, if you said that they ought to, they would. Gladly bend over. Let you use them. Only difference was, you wouldn't spit them out once you were done. You'd chew on them, till they became me. A lowly being, unfit to be recognised nor remembered. Just holding onto the happiness that became you, the life that became you, and the heart that became yours.

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