The King and I

Like the hollowed inner tubing of a siphon
You drain the remnants of my wilted spirits
Collapsed and spent on my back
Mouth pried open, hands raw
Im praying youve had enough
Youre not quite certain of who I am
Neither am I
I think I was supposed to be the scarecrow
And you, the tin man,
Or maybe the man of steel
Or maybe Is a slave,
And yous a masta.
Can you hear it when Im choking?
I mean, over your sniffing and snorting?
Gurgle, cough, now I can breathe
Wiat! I think I remember who youre supposed to be
Yes, I see it
It was the king
Sitting on a throng of delusion, misogyny and abuse
I gorge on the garbage at your feet, I cant get enough
Jesus, Ive forgotten my title, its on the tip of my tongue
Who am I when you are not thinking of me?
A fringed, fraying doormat,
Or a queen?
I simply cannot recall which one I am supposed
To be,
And so I bathe in the garbage at your feet.

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