I think following your dreams are overrated
In fact
The entire concept
Of linking happiness to career
Is capitalism
At its finest.
I just do my regular nine to five
Get that paycheck on time
Pay my bills
Pay my rent
And then have fun
On my own dime.
Some may call me a dominatrix
Some may call me a sex addict
But around these parts
They call me Mrs. X
Because X marks the spot
Where my whip
Clashes with pure flesh
Melting into a pool of sexual serenity
Not even pornography
Could put to the test.
But me, Mrs. X
Share my life with no one
As my title suggests.
Some may call me a shrew
Some may call me a whore
But when your 45 and living your best life
Who cares what others say
No, really. Why the F$%T
Should anyone care
What anyone else thinks?
It makes me so mad
I've lost the rhyme
And ponder on the idiosyncracies
Of this messed up place.
Perhaps it's because the institution
Trains us from young
That society demands sameness
Or that our talents are tradeable
So we should sell our souls
Just to be famous.
I dunno.
This night is slow.
I'm waiting for Jackson to
Come through
My legs have been aching from
Our last meeting
and my breasts tender
Ass tight
Still trembling from pleasure
"Lunch" with Tom was nice
But it all comes down to Jackson.
I bite my nails thinking about him
Straddling me
Only to be interrupted by Leighan
Asking me to leave the reports on her desk
Tomorrow, 9am sharp
Bitch. How'd she get this number?
A doorbell. I get giddy. Jackson is here.
Hearts racing
Mouthwatering
I answer the door
And he greets me with a punch
To the face
Cheek throbbing
I attempt a smile
And slide to my knees
And welcome Daddy home.
YOU ARE READING
Unsaid
PoetryA series of poems, short stories and anecdotes that explore the range of human emotion through the eyes of three persons named A, Z and X.
