I’m becoming a novelty.

Some turpentine 

Daydream

You treat like 

An                       trampoline

       emotionless

You don’t care

About the sum of me

Or the lines on my face,

What the patterns they make mean

You just want a heart

To use

A warm, unyielding appendage 

To abuse

Until you’re satisfied

There’s no more pleasure to reap

And, thoroughly used,

You  

throw  

       me 

 on 

      the 

          scrap

              heap.

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