The old broken faucet has lost
all her *** appeal:
rusts crawl over her silvery spine,
molds grow into her fleshy bone marrow —
a piercing neck pain
forces her to bow down, she starts sobbing like
a widow’s red runny nose, shedding
cold iron tears in this decade-long winter.
But her **** penetrates the dark in a
filthy glimmer, with a raging libido,
she lubricates relentlessly
against her miserable aging,
the physical abuse and body shaming,
the profane hands that exploited her
and objectified her as a mere metallic tool, no —
she was born with a sacred task to cleanse the world!
Her wrinkled mouth salivates
for this forbidden idea, unquenched, unheard.
For once, she wants to clear her throat
and curse like a loud flush toilet, but
her vocal tract is simply not
built that way — she can’t even utter a word
in her native language, nor sing
the national anthem she knows by heart
She murmurs something like an incantation
or a wishful thinking,
probably some magical pseudo-words
to allure a lover,
an ignorant one, who would pity her
misfortune, embrace her
scars, treat her nicely
as a ******
and imbibe her bitter dew in bliss — it’s a catharsis
she’s been waiting for!
How delusional, what awaits her
is her own demise and menopause.