I swear, my ancestors would be ashamed
to know that I would give myself so willingly to someone
to use and abuse, to mistreat and cherish,
to one who couldn't desire me in the way I want them to
less.
And I have.
I have passionately succumbed to your lily white skin
in the way my forefathers had passionately rebelled against the antebellum masters'.
Restricted by the bronze shackles of your eyes
and chained by thoughts of you constantly
in the forefront of my mind,
I am yours.
And you punish me with your
cold indifference to my presence
when we're together
and cruel words you spit to me about others
(I'm sure you utilize your harsh tongue
against me when I'm not around).
You flog me when I see your hand in theirs,
and the sting of the whip you crack when
you abandon me for another brings me to my knees.
But despite your endless mistreatment,
I endure with a grueling display of masochism,
because the quick smile on your face, or an emotionless "thanks"
when I do what you ask of me
is reward enough.
I ceaselessly look forward to those rare days
in which you call upon me again
and reward me with your presence
for it gives me the utmost pleasure to please you
because according to Shakespeare
"being your slave, what should I do
but tend upon the hours and times of your desire"?
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