no more the demanding sound of his snapping fingers
am I to costume myself with facades just for him?
falsifying, prance doll-like on his stage as the person I am not
uphold his belief in sordidness.
These collective pretentious identities,
irregularities, and bad habits, not mine
he abusively pours into the vessel of my true title
tries to endow me with darker attitudes and voices
attempts to warp the dimensions of my nature
assumes he can make of me using his hideous imaginations
a completely manipulated lust seeking servile creature
not realising how blunt his metaphorical knife at my throat is
or how very, very soon the angel of anger and revenge guarding my soul