Adaptive

Pain entrances me. I hang stretched
From rafters of desire, pinned in place
By a word, a look, a raised hand.

But you do not see me. I am no more
Than a vessel, hollow, poured full
Of another’s self-loathing.

You are me. I am your creation
Wrought through agonies, a mirror,
Blind like a shard of bruised glass

Panic disarms me. I am suspended
On a cord of terror, stretched between
You and what I once was.

But you do not want me. I am excess
To your desires, a never-ending game
For your cursory amusement.

You need me. I am the blood
That sustains you, a scarlet scour
To press against your creeping flesh.

Rage prolongs me. I remake myself
In your image, bend willingly
To the relentless yoke of your hand.

But ultimately feeling betrays me. I see your eyes
Ember black, or diamond dagger bright,
Slicing into me, through me. Never enough.

Never utterly what you yearn for.

by Josey Walsh

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