The Courtesan

I am desperately alone again.

I know he will not choose me.

She is a great deal more attractive than I with her alluring gaze, sweet musky perfume and youthful, suggestive body. 

He is intrigued by her life, hanging on every word as if unbound pleasure escapes from her lips and floats to his spirit leaving him whole and un-wanting.

He is eager to fully know her, asking with pining curiosity about her cherished lifelong dreams, as he intricately caresses the nape of her neck.

He worships her company but not mine.

I am the wife.

The one that he believes spends all of his hard earned precious money; the one that endlessly nags him and confines him to a jail cell called home.

The one he hates; the spit clinging to the bottom of his shoe.

He utters her name with euphoria and passion.

He preaches of her potential and knowledge as he self-righteously beats me with my failures.

I will never be what he truly desires.

He will always turn to her understanding ear and adoring gentle embrace.

She does whatever he pleases, fulfilling his every yearning wish.

He shares bottomless laughter with her and is instantly at ease in her presence.

I provoke uncontrollable rage by merely breathing in life.

It will not matter how I agonize in my frantic attempt to please him.

He will go to her and I will live no more.