What would you have of me?
Something not-love, but tantamount?
You feel so entitled to all of me,
asking for more than my heart’s-amount?
Touching my body without permission,
bringing gifts as if I’m to let,
then wallow in weeks of sulky perdition,
when I wouldn’t pay my debt.
Time makes expectations groan,
and entitlement tends to lurk,
when love gets called the "friendzone",
and friendship turns into work.
I was your punching bag when things were tough,
your pillow when you were shattered.
What I gave was never good enough.
What I wanted never mattered.
The more I grew to health and life,
I grew useless to your desires.
Me: not content to be a cruel heart’s wife,
nor lover to bitter fires.
Not a cisgender cock for you to tuck,
not a hetero dick for you to suck,
not a cherry to pick, or a pussy to pluck,
not your butchers meat to have and fuck.
I’m sorry my love’s not up to snuff,
but it never was before.
But you don’t pay me nearly well enough,
to consider me your whore.
-o0o-
