I feel a little like a used condom.
I always feel sorry for those things.

There's usually a penis inside:
some big and fat,
some small and skinny,
some red and bulbous,
some pink and sleek,

but they're present at the most
intimate moment a human can have,
and when the pleasure is done
they're tossed aside in a sticky mess,
waiting to be dumped.

I empathize with the used condom;
it's not their fault, they don't
know what they got themselves into,
and they all end up getting called
the same thing: "trash".

They're thin skinned, fragile
and sometimes break.

It's tragic, really,
looking at the shriveled thing
that broke.

Instead of the sperm dying
in a latex womb,
they've found mine.

It's tragic, really.

01/09/2009

Posted on 04/12/2010
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