Men, Women, Desire, IreMature

By day a glance he will never throw
I am a helpless recipient of his ire
By night a docile kitten he turns into
when aroused by dormant desires

When his desire is all but sated
for brief moments I am his queen
Without preamble he abruptly leaves
for another week to remain unseen

The cycle continues indefinitely
alternating between periods of neglect
His love exists for relations physical
and this association I do regret

Men are wired differently, I hear
For them love is a physical need?
Are women meant to be used and thrown?
I so ponder this often indeed!

The End

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