The Man

Sometimes I think he’s pretending,
To gain a better sense of morality.
He says I’m just being paranoid,
He keeps me in the dark fumbling for reasons,
For all those drunken clinches.
He pushes my buttons, tempts and teases me,
Then retreats at the last moment
Before he’s in above his head.
I am a plaything,
With stung eyes and charred fingers.
He is my euphoria; but I wish I’d never met him.