Cupped

He sits in silence, staring at the wall.

Sweat like diamonds

On his forehead.

One hand cupping his balls.

His breathing is but a stutter.

His heart is kicked into a race.

His abdomen is tightened

And there's a flush covering his face.

Mind awash with things he's done

All the things he never said.

He twists the rope, rough on his skin.

Tied intricately around his leg,

There's this...

F.

E.

E.

L.

I.

N.

G.

When he squeezes

That which he has cupped.

A pain akin

To the hurt caused

By not always

Giving a fuck.

He then squeezes his eyelids shut.

Keeps clamping down on his nuts,

But,

Claiming to like the gentler touch...

When it all gets too much, this life,

He's right, he says, to himself

To put what he wants

Before everything else.

Lines 'whores' up on a shelf.

A shelf on that wall he keeps staring at.

Where he sits in silence,

Sweat on his forehead like diamonds,

With

One.

Hand.

Cupping.

His.

Balls.

It's not the same at all, and he knows it.

Feeeeeeels it,

Each time he tries to blow it.

Each time his balls take him back to that spot.

He stops.

Takes a long, slow breath,

Then

Begins. Again.

It's an endless cycle of remorse and regret

Combined with a yearning he is yet

To fully sate or quench.

So he sits there,

Cupping his balls.

Time ticking onwards

As he stares at that wall...
 

#Cupped  #YDLD