Benign

And to the tip of my tongue this falls
you asked, for it to be there
it is the scrap metal of fear
it is the rusty screw and driving nail of my contortions
I am your machine.
There will be thank you’s emitted from high squeaking mouths,
wrenched by guilt, flooded by the naked sap of grief,
soaked in it.
Stunted.
And wilting.
Bitter sand paper grates the skin from my hands
as I rub faster,
to make your tomes
these, the decrepit dichotomies in diatribe,
to make language on pages where no word should trod.
This is the effort of your slaves,
of your queens,
Of the sad sweet cinnamon tales.
Monotony becomes my eyes and my lips and my feet and my breasts
Just to be your machine.
I am once held, yet again released on leash,
forever a prisoner bound,
forever lusting after the sweetness of air.