Kamikaze

I think I might very well die
on this table, tied down for
dissection beneath your glare,
you cold, elusive stare
picking me into a thousand
pieces, instruments for study.
To you, I am not a woman.
Just a specimen, a toy
to be forgotten and destroyed.

If you find what you want,
you'll still throw me away,
out of sight, out of your life
like an old sock, all holed up
with dirt-encrusted memories
of little women squashed out of existence.

You are not a man,
you are a monster.
An emotional whore
applying your thick layer of love
crudely into the aging grooves of your face.
Clown-lipped and ridiculous
you fucked me day and night,
a kamikaze train into my core.
And now, dear men, I breathe no more.