A Cynical Perspective

She knows it burns my heart.  She doesn’t care;
she’s got to keep her own from catching fire,
compelled to chase her mind most anywhere
her therapist directs her, but desire.
When wet was sultry, nothing was enough
to quench her thirst or sate her flesh, her flame.
She liked it hot and hard and sometimes rough.
She liked to wreck her throat to scream my name.
But wet has gotten cold; the sheets are ice.
She says her shrink assures her its the way
to heal whatever wound she suffered. Nice.
She’s finally found a whore who makes her pay.
The price, besides her tab, is just her soul,
extinguished for a sense of false control.

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