Pain glitters. There.
That wall of mirrors. Unspeakable.
I want to take you to my little graveyard.
Because we both understand that
friends are imaginary.
Will you be the moral of this story?
Your slick pity drips into the bedpan.
But I was never young
enough to escape disgust.
You’ve come to sponge my dirty heart but
bursting. The strain
of infection. Your covered mouth.
The vast playground of hate
is innocent. Ants burst open
questions. the force of the flood.
And you above me, cherub.