Each week I come to see you and we dance.
I call upon you of my own volition.
Your awful patience strengthening my chance
to one day break with years of sick tradition.
The rotting dead you sweetly make me raise;
unearthing years of useless, fetid stuff.
I watch my hands, I cannot meet your gaze.
To stammer out the words is work enough.
A litany of faults all on display,
all pulled apart, a pin in every section.
Dissected in a kind and gentle way,
I shudder at your terrible affection.
What keeps me coming back? I think I know.
The gasping freedom when you let me go.
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