Before our lives together began he watched me.
Weekly, he came. And would run his calloused, rough hands
against my plush 400 thread-count skin,
and I longed for the day he would make me his.
Sitting alone on the shelf, I would picture
how our future together would be:
I would be there for his every need. To wrap my body
around his, and keep his naked body warm
Anxiously awaiting the chance to serve;
And he would reciprocate with a kind and gentle caress.
And so it went, our life began.
For months, and years, I eagerly served him
In the early morning hours,
When he was hurried for work
On those late nights,
he came home reeking of alcohol
stumbling blindly into the bathroom.
I would provide his head a gentle place to rest,
when it was just too hard to make it to bed.
I sopped up his messes, his spills.
From the cartons of milk
knocked from the counter by a careless hand,
to the oceans of shit that welled over the porcelain bowl,
a tidal wave of filth and stench;
I was there.
But now, I have grown old,
worn from years of eager servitude.
The wind blows fierce,
through my threadbare skin.
Nothing more than a tattered rag,
Left to lie with the dogs:
a chew toy, to be shredded in shame.
