House of Wax

The beloved carnifex says I'm his favorite cut.

Despite hanging on a meat hook, I feel butterflies swirling in my gut.

I don't remember much besides being hit with an axe.

It feels nice to stare up at him as he begins to pour wax.

He set a place for me to stand, but every light feels too warm.

Feeling his cinnamon eyes on me is the norm.

I seldomly see people walk through our house to never leave.

Expecting anything more would be naive.

On his time off, sometimes he'll pull up a chair so we can be close.

Everyone else is wrong whenever describing him as morose.

He fixes every crack on my skin and moves me out of the light.

I wish he would move me into his bed for the night.

I long to move around but my limbs are rendered immobile. 

From all I've seen, I would describe him as noble.

Trying to lurch forward makes my limbs leaves a pattern of unique craquelure

It takes hours to crawl towards the door with my cure.

It's hours before he manages to find me and check.

He stares down at me, having to crane his neck.

I try to reach forward and my hand runs off from my own wrist.

He sews it back on and speaks about me being dearly missed.

I feel relief whenever I'm laid on a very soft bed.

All of my worries immediately leap from my head.

It's so unfortunate how warm wax always seems to melt.

In the morning, you'd rebuild me to fix the hand you've been dealt.

I am repaired in your image of me.

I still can never understand what you see.

I hang on every word and dream of you during nox.

I stare at you the way a hungry wolf stares at a fox.

(This poem sucks and I ran out of rhymes, bleeeeehhhh. :,<)