Clipped Wings

Do I exist to you?
Am I real?
A fabrication of your imagination perhaps,
Only a shell, not a person,
Sick fantasy played out in reality
Making you happy, making you pleased.

Thoughts in your head, feelings,
Understanding, impossible. Truly.
Lost inside your own sick mind
Daydreaming of the next time,
I have no face to you
I am nothing but an owned object.

Consideration never given,
Apologies apparently not needed,
Invisible my soul to you
Eyes see straight through,
In charge, in control, winning the game,
Being caught never an option.

Surprise that day
When I spread my clipped wings and flew away,
Left alone to face the consequences of a fantasised reality,
Not a man. Not a person. Sick being of no importance.
Dirt on a shoe. Twisted and evil.
Nothing. No one. No longer existing.