Mistress

It’s always your back
That gets me.
The hard, muscular lines
The worry bundled into
Your core
Hunching your shoulders.
I’m never enough.
My hands are too small
And my arms too dainty
But then,
Your pain is too great
For one person to hold.
It would take ten of us
And a vat of ice cold
Death
To replenish
The horror that lives
And writhes inside of you.
…just a back rub,
Stretch you back into
The shape of a man,
Even if it is all a façade
Even if you’re internally flawed  
Heroine is your wife
And I am nothing but
A forlorn mistress.