The World Is But A Stage For Our Mutilation

Joystick genitals, pressbuttontocum.
I want sex without attachments but you’re pulling my strings; puppeteering my ego.
Our intimacy is staged for all to see so here’s to the curtain call.
Solitary pleasure for the sole needs of one.
Mimicking faked forms of union we see up upon the silver screen.
You want affection, all we want is satisfaction.
Dining on an illusion we can’t seem to discard,
only thrown away for the promise of a quick—fix—pleasure—binge.
Faceless euphoria when I have you with your back turned, blind attraction with thoughtless submission. I loved you best with your ankles shackled and your arms sprawled across the floor;
like a stranded sailor headed towards their newly found paradise straddled by a born again Christian reaching_for_Jesus.
Together our revelations screamed betrayal.
{Your possession makes me feel like I’m needed.}
When left with your selfish selfless desire I’m charmed.
Lights on us, who would dare questions this private role reversal?
No flowers will be thrown at the end of the act so save the bouquet.