A monologue of heartbroken devotion - Vee Makaba

 It's when he beats me with his cold words. His icy staccato. I come crumbling down. I wait for his warmth to build me up again but nothing. I'm past faithful. I'm devoted. I'm servant-like. Should he command, I'd forever kneel in his presence. Like the hungry pauper I am. His crumbs will do. I never harp. I never speak out of turn. I take my crumbs and live. His words of seduction leave his lips to never land on my lobes. They fly to the women in the fields. I stay longing. Watching them pass by and yet if he commanded me to, I'd wash his feet with my tears and wipe them with my most expensive cloth. His disabling touch never makes moves towards me. I am his land. He may do with me as he wishes. I lay barren. Waiting for him to use me. Heed not the morose harping of a maiden such as I. Sometimes, many times words are just that. Words. His biggest lesson.