I've taken up a part-time job as a chew toy,
and a full-time job as a broken bird.
My wings, once white and magnificent,
now have shriveled and vanished,
for I am Icarus and have flown too close to my sun.
Men without faces to beds without feelings,
is this truly what I wanted?
Or am I the ultimate *******,
stuck in a constant scene with no safe word,
taking hit after hit because I feel I deserve it.
I find myself at the feet of Eros, beautiful in his godhood,
and I pray, I pray, please tell me I'm worth more than this,
tell me I can love, though I know not what love is,
nor if I deserve it,
tell me I can make something out of this chaos I have flown into.
And as he smiles, I feel my vision blurring as I hit the mattress,
that ****** mattress on the floor, plush with a false sense of security, but firm in its reminder of what I am;
he cups my face and stabs me,
"This is nothing,"
and so nothing I am.