I am
not
a sex
object,
he says,
and asks
to spoon
instead.
my tears
ink
the darkness.
this one woman
sex sweatshop
learned
to paint
so his place
could have
pictures.
this sex
user
brought him
chocolate
because he
hates
Mondays.
she wrote
him notes
and dumb jokes.
and
held his hand
as he watched
his broken life
shatter.
I thought
we were sacred.
I am just
naked
silverware,
I guess
and that
I use him
for
sex.
