Pleasing

I, with reckless disregard
for the bile collecting
in my conscience,
settle into a familiar mindless
rhythm I've heard called making love.

This is, at best, playing at love,
as children play house.

This is not even making amends,
cannot be construed as making,
but unmaking.

Your touch-
my god this cannot be pleasure
as you brush away my dead outer layer,
this senseless shell and husk of
memories which litter sheets,
carpets, clothes, drains,-
my new skin I wear like
an infant in a baptismal font
abandoned by its priest.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)