When he’s desperate he turns me on again
I stretch out to be the length of his favorite sin
He’s ever so violently intermittent when he drains me
Yet I store his dirt in clumps and heaps without complaining
I move everything but him out of my direct path
I roll forward or backward when he passive aggressively asks
I adjust when he just wants me to suck his corners and curtains
I act smaller when he ignores me so that I am never a burden
And when he feels absolved of it all he’ll turn me off again
Putting me away next to his washing machine and rubbish bin
My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 
As someone reading along with your story. I could be interpreting your writings to seriously. I would like to believe that what your sharing here is your “cleansing” thoughts. All that to say “i’m rooting for you to finally break his spell…”
Thank you very much for even reading at all. The future will be some sort of art, either way.