The Sticks, They Drift

 Handheld harassment.

Caress the flesh,

of my sweaty palm,

and swallow its secretion.

Oh, controller.

You know I love how it feels

when you’re handheld.

The skin,

on my thumb,

peels.

I only take breaks

to scarf down meals.

Without you,

my mind,

no longer prevails.

You were only 3 months old.

Your condition: critical.

Your sticks drift: no longer controlled.