Some days, I am her handy tech support with a cock

She calls me to fix computer, or operate her fax machinecan't figure out how to operate her fax machine.

Other times, she calls upon me when her cigarettes have run out and she wants something
to do with her mouth
, or her hands, or her lips.

Sometimes, I am her dark mistress,
providing moments of poem song
that are never about me,
no matter how much they resemble our lives.

Her words carve moments of experience into pieces
that can be digested, analysed. There is no room for discusion.
it is art, not life.

She tries to find reasons for me to leave.
Throwing constructs in ocean waves,
trying to find one that fits.

I am her deus ex machina, and her chortling villain.
Maybe one day, I will be just me

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