Stepping Stone


I love this arrangement you have manipulated me into,
Because everyone needs a stone to step on,
A foothold when they’re about to fall,
And I cannot thank you enough for making me yours.
The weight of your foot upon my skull
Is something I certainly yearn for and do not resent;
Being used for your convenience—
And being ignored and discarded when it’s not convenient—
Is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.
What a marvel that you ascertained my ambitions
Without me uttering a single word to you!
The truth is that you are a user,
Wielding the armaments you possess to strike,
Felling those who would not fit into your hierarchy,
And trampling upon their remains.
You had no right to ever touch me—
To even lay a finger on me—
But you sunk your entire body into mine
Without word or even a trivial glance
And only the shallowest apology as you continued,
As though I were inanimate.
Blame the drink, blame the cheater,
Whatever you need to do so you feel better,
If you even remember inflicting the wounds at all;
But by whatever god holds dominion over our lives,
Do not speak to me again, do not take a step
Believing I will be there for you to trod upon,
Because you will receive only silence
And find yourself plummeting to the bottom of a hole,
Where I hope in darkness you will see what you are,
And what you have wrought upon me,
And never be able to climb out.


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.

Living Horrors

Do not shower me with your adulations;
They are acrimony to mine ears.
Your effete efforts to boost my ego
Only serve as japes to remind me of what I am in your eyes:
Nothing real
Nothing worth giving yourself to,
Only a caste to fill with catastrophe and dejection.

Were I robbed of innocence—
Debauchery transmuting your living horrors
And unscrupulous scandal—
Would you have me then?
Hollow are the words I speak
To the conformation of your solace,
Elsewise you would have me mute,
For the truth is a dagger to your ears.

I am your dutiful mannequin;
Project the terrors of your existence onto me,
Won’t you?
Plastic and armless I am,
With no defense but a look and impassivity:
Your wondrous work of art.

Blind you would have me
To the iniquity of your darkest hours,
To shield me from the sin I know too much of,
Or to eschew a judging eye?
But I know all, like an oracle of tragedy,
Each omission from your darkest hours;
And an eye doth I possess, to see all,
Even that which shames you the most.

Money Eyes

Peer at me with money eyes.
Camaraderie is a convincing disguise,
But the underscoring truth belies
The intentions of your grotesque reprise.

Would a little sincerity kill you, darling?
Humor me until I bend or break;
Whittle away at me with affection,
And spear my heart with your insufferable gaze.
Feel my legs quiver, enfeebled
Against the strength of your weakness.
Speak the pleas I yearn to hear;
Now watch as I collapse and cave.

Have you gotten all you wished for?
Will my existence earn a passing thought
In days to come, when I’m long gone?
Will I have served my purpose to you,
Offering all value that can be measured?
Will you have satiated your demented version of friendship?
Or will you stare into the mirror reflecting the past,
Conscious of the wretch you are?