Who are you to me?

Who are you to me
but the butt of a long ugly joke
about unrequited love
 
that you repay cheaply
with lust
 
the dirty mirror of your heart
colorblind to any subtlety of tone
 
always it has been safest for you
when I submit to our bodies meeting
only on that barren playing field
that you mistake for love
 
didn’t anyone ever mention
that love is a bigger game
than what you play
with far less room
for exchangeable players
 
no, probably not
 
once I had anger for what you cant give
then later grief
now pity
 
and even saints
which I aint
find it hard
to pity-fuck
 
I have you right where you always wanted
mere meat for my fire
that, really, I can get anywhere
and probably better
or at least wider
now that I’ll allow me
to mention our basest, crudest
physiology
and that reality
 
none of this matters
 
I am tired of your colorless rules
and how meager your affections feel
to my deeper-than-flesh starvations
 
if it’s really a game to you
then bad news
 
I’m taking my ball
 
and I’m going home