Mr. M

He loves all women, doesn’t matter the race, size, shape or tribe, and every woman is his mistress.

I’m next in line for his habitual visit, another dreadful period of distress.

He will show up at the door in his signature maroon suit and red tie.

Bearing a box of chocolates in one hand and in the other, pain will lie.

My body morphs in anticipation of despair,

unwelcome protrusions here,

and welcomed swelling there.

Emotions whirl and twirl in an uneven sphere

Yet, somehow his visit catches me unawares and between my legs I feel his pressure.

It yields all of the pain and none of the pleasure.

Mother said He is good for me,

He makes me a woman, a fertile entity.

Mother said He is good for me,

He makes me a woman, healthy and free from impurity.

And though she is right, he is also a monster, the kind stakes and silver bullets can’t annihilate.

Next time though, I’ll have red bullets ready to tame and domesticate.

You’re probably next in line for his visit beautiful and I hope you’re ready.

Chronic habitualist that he is, he’ll come again next month, his pain still heady.

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