I am my lover's *****. 
I am not the object of his affection 
but rather a tangible stable entity 
he sometimes chases after. 
Much like a dog 
craving his favorite chew toy. 
Playfully rolling in a puddle of mud 
which coincidentally is exactly
what he thinks of me.
A property, only his to be owned
Even when he throws me away, 
I should never dare to dethrone him
from the place he still thinks he owns.
To him I am unclean,
forgetting that his own hands 
have soiled my soul more than 
the ones before him. 
He wraps his unkind words
around my neck, 
ruthless knots I can't forget. 
He speaks of growing old 
while he eagerly counts down
the years to my death.
Not knowing that with every breath
I now die a little less.
Because when he leaves,
the noose around my neck loosens
a volcanic anger flows from within me
full of realisation that he can no longer have me, 
because I now come at an expense
he can no longer afford.