You aver to me your fidelity: “I’d never cheat!”

I don’t doubt that; you love me as your one and only

As your life force, I can't leave, nor peel you off,

only to tend and nourish,

till the point where you suck me empty.

You quarrelsome wife whom I refuse to live with.

You won’t catch me on the roof, for I will get away.

Your love I might sense and even warm towards,

but I am no filter; I don’t tolerate lukewarm.

You are either in or out, 100%, or nothing at all.

It is not in my nature to absorb half

and keep out the other half of ugly residue.

Yet all along it is I in the folly,

rebuking the splatters on your face,

while I drown in my own mawkish tears.

Me, the spoiled daughter of a noble lord and lady,

I demand that dolls obey, or I rip out their stuffings.

The rules were simple:

they ought to please the will of their hostess.

Your love is pure in flecks, muddy in others;

mine is the rose in the Beast’s garden,

whose thorns prick if you dare to step out of the line.

Which is better, which is worse? 

Which is utterly toxic?