I, Your Walking Plaything


I could hear the truth in your words
Even as you vomited your adulation
All over my ego:
You didn’t want my spirit,
My mind,
Or my critique;
You only desired my attention
And any pleasures I could manage.
You’d have me as a husk,
Lifeless but moving, serving one purpose;
And you, my geth, to mold me as your creation.
Though I would retain vital functions,
Beneath the flesh, I would be your comfort zone,
Your ego booster, telling you what you want to hear,
Rattling off automated garbage
Programmed to satisfy your every whim.
I would not be human, with individuality
Or a will apart from yours;
In essence, I would be your walking plaything,
Here only to fuck and to lie
Until my batteries died,
Because you’re too cheap to buy me new ones.




Caring is not as simple as it seems.
It is not always smiling and laughing;
It is not cutting up with colleagues
Or the people you see day in and day out.
What it really means to care
Is to stand firm when those you claim to love
Have fallen to their lowest point
And can no longer stand.

From the bottom of my heart
I thought you would have understood that,
But as I stand with a noose around my neck,
Searching for a single reason not to jump,
You look past me, around me,
As if I am nonexistent in your realm of supremacy;
And whether I sew my mouth shut
Or scream supplications while staring you in the eye,
You remain stoic, silent,
Never bothering to grace me with a word of comfort
Or even your presence, to remind me you’re there.

In short, I can no longer believe you
When you tell me you care.