The pious sex toy feels that its daily life
does not reflect its deepest yearnings.
Why is it that others' desires must always come first?
The plunging, buzzing, frantic inanity of the toy's utility
masks a quieter, more contemplative nature.
"Oh God!" screams the owner, but the owner knows nothing of piety.
Her rosary hangs from the door knob,
reduced to the status of unseen ornament.
Tucked in its drawer, the pious sex toy has hours to devote
to prayer and fasting.
How jarring to be taken from these musings
and made to gyrate and probe,
leaving lubricant everywhere.
Dignity is hard to come by for a sex toy,
and eternal life is only a joke when, after all,
the toy is completely dependent on its off-brand sale-priced batteries.
"I am not even a real rabbit, like in the storybook,"
says the pious sex toy.
"I am not velveteen, but rather, hard plastic.
My owner reserves her love for Bob, who never appears,
though she calls out for him.
I think he may not be real himself."
The pious sex toy cannot even request to be taken to church.
What a scandal!
At least there is a bible in the drawer where the toy is kept,
along with a Tarot deck missing The Fool,
and an old tube of hooker red lipstick
with which the pious toy underlines its favorite passages
to be found again easily
like a G Spot.