A Life Sans Pleasure
By Spencer M.
If he liked the feeling of wet hair clinging to his face,
I’d simply become the rain water that covered him as he was walking home.
And if he began to shiver from the storm,
I’d become the warm shower water he soaked in to remove his skin of the prior me.
I’d become every intriguing girl and mistress when he became bored,
And I’d become the tears that ran down his cheeks
and the apology that rolled off his tongue
when he came home.
I’d become the make up sex,
and I’d become the resulting wrinkles in his sheets,
as well as the animalistic scent that clung to his pillows.
I’d become the mirror he used to look at himself as he wondered if it was worth it all, and the church he turned to to free himself of guilt.
I’d become his God when he needed saving,
and his heaven when he needed reward.
And if he liked the tension opposition brings,
I’d become that too.
I’d become his witch when he needed games,
and his Satan when he needed torture.
He’d have it all.
POETRY