is it my tears that they crave
the iron sweet taste of my blood
what can make them feel whole
my willing self is never enough
its the secret private pieces of me they lust for
my pain my tears my blood
nothing ever sates them
my voice crying pleading
falling on deaf ears
.. a waste of breath
will i ever be more
than a feeling, a night, a regret
am i ever going to be
more than an interactive toy
a technicolor plaything
retiring myself
no more will these arms, these legs, this body and mind play host
welcoming
whomever wants me
liars
whoever promises me love
falsely
i am nothing
a creation of what makes them whole
a chameleon, a lie
perpetuating a myth of importance
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