a thousand sundays of silence

they comes in swarms
with their beady eyes
the need palpable
dripping off them
filling the room
with stenchfog
i see them for what they are though
they wear the right clothes
or buy the right perfume
or put on make up
whatever they read
real people do
but they are facsimiles
cardboard masks
that hide the jutting proboscis
these humanoid mosquitos
with fluttering wings
and vacant stares
as they buzz around your head
constantly jabbering mindlessly
to distract as the females
drain your blood to feed the carnivorous hordes
in their bellies
while the males stare off
ashamedly while telling you
about their day or whatever
meanwhile
i just want a she of my own
to curl up in bed
and listen to ryo or orville peck
as we let our hands and lips
do the talking to make up
for a thousand sundays of silence

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