Spirograph

You begged me

to win your tits

in a cancer 

awareness

charity auction

in which

a bust of your breasts

was entered

painted to draw

a fan of the valley.

You said how unsettled

you were the last time

when a stranger took home

that replica of your chest.

You claimed it meant nothing

when he finished inside

last week, that Plan B

would prevent

any glitch.

You dodged two words

for far too long

so now you can't live

rent-free in my head.