Madonna. Whore.

You called me beautiful, said you could see me with a child on my hip and flowers in my hair. My shirt billows, you glow. I am your Virgin Mary. My hands are exclusively for fruit cutting and hand feeding. My feet are bare and slightly dirty, but you barely notice. You run silent circles along my arms, whispering to me through your delicately smudged fingerprints. But your hands start to fall and suddenly, I am someone else (to you). Someone you sneak off with in the depths of the night. She’s clad in black, your little devil girl. She is not the mother of your child but instead, your tangible fantasy. Her touch burns like fire and her lips reign more addictive than any drug you've ever taken. And you would never give her a child. She has never been weighted with life and she never will be. She is instead, ephemeral. Living for you and only you, she knows your worlds won’t mix. She knows her hands were not made for hair braiding or peek-a-boos. She knows that in the morning, she will rightfully return to the storage box with a dusty label, and lay until she is called upon again.