My Man, His it

A mother to you, a son to me, sucking the life out of my bosom and weep in disgust when it's saggy. Men love a tempting hole to fit in, to dissolve seeds of bliss and then chymic wring it barren of faith. They carve open doors in me and call it a home. women love a alchemist man , fixing her a hermetic bleed till she droughts. We kneel before charlatans , praying they will turn our bruises into ivory pearls. He smelts my body into his furnace, a vessel he tempers but never treasures. For she does a lore gathering, his awe vanishes when he recoils like a cannon when her lapis tears turns into rusty black. My sapphire veins curdle into iron, my tears tarnish like oxidised silver. When will I be granted to love, be loved? Is there a surgical routine to remove my own famine? Am I not feminine enough? do i howl like a wolf at your moon? My womb houses a cemetery of his desires, for his devotion buries in it and never traces my pulse. Sculpted me into a marble and chipped me down to dust. My glory resides only between my tendrils, a catacomb where his footsteps echo in my hollow halls. I was promised milk and honey, but my lips taste only rust when your touch mine. He is my man and i am his it, carves obedience into my ribs but my spine grew sharper. for i am his cherry pulp and womb a fire pit, i birth rage not blissful seeds. Licking a man's bones , chewing it till his marrow to know where does his audacity comes from. I am his jumbo carcass, a roadkill scorning at my exploited scathed ivory tusks. The Alchemist is gone, the furnace is cold and I remain, a ruin of what was never gold.