I wish I could pop you.
In fact, I tried--sewing needle
dipped in alcohol and the steady hand of my lover.
"Ouch!" followed by quiet screams and exclamations
into my comforter, followed by...nothing.
Nothing. You yielded no satisfaction in cathartic pus
release. No, you denied me that healing salve.
Instead I grunt and moan and yelp, sit on a donut
pillow, unappeased, while you, pilonidal cyst,
laugh to see me, dunce on a foamy throne.
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