Mercedes

He slips his slithering arm around my body.

It reminds me of how he dangles the keys to his Benz from his fingers with

Possession and Pridefulness.

Simply the car belongs to him

With no vice versa.

I am the Benz.

He is him.

His hands the keys.

He wouldn't be the first or last in the driver's seat.

Each one of them have tried to start the engine, but the keys never worked.

They just dirty up the Benz interior placing their sticky, greedy fingers everywhere.

Pushing every button, squeezing the seats, shifting the gears.

Sometimes once they've seen whats inside this pretty Benz they choose to leave.

They choose to look for another car. 

No one willing to stay long enough to clean up the mess everyone has made.

They're all just looking to start someones engine.