I have never been at anyone’s beck and call,

I will tug no lock nor doff my trilby to no one,

I will admire in great abundance but I will not lick your arse clean

nor allow you to make me feel like I am worthless;

for I am not your whipping boy.

 

I place the smoky glass in front of me as I wish it to tempt me,

inside I want it to take me to a place where

you cannot reach me, because the last thing I want

is for you to sip at my bottle  again, for you to believe that you can treat me in such

fashion, with such disdain for feelings and the convention of manners.

 

I am not your whore, your frightened slave, quivering, cowering,

throwing my hands up to the sky as in act of penance, grovelling at my knees

and whispering through bloodied teeth, broken, smashed

and blankly seeing through dead eyes, cold and bitter,

I will risk your whip, for the little regard I now show you

is scant to the respect you ever showed me.

 

I do not touch the glass, I find a way to control it minute by minute

as I sweat and dodge the sniper’s well aimed bullet

by the strand of a single grey hair, but the glass calls and calls

it winks as provocatively as a young women flush with

hormones and the come to bed brown eyes and stocking covered toes.

 

I cannot do this, for you ask so much but offer

fuck all in return and being busy is an excuse to be rude.

I will not be your private secretary, do this now and with the tone of voice

that implies my heart to feel fit to burst in shreds of disappointed

anger, you have no right after all,

to make me feel bad.

Ian D. Hall 2015.