Almost as if he had been made
with sin itself, he grew
still a bud on toxic liquid love.
Loving the sweet lies

as the sun loved the moon.
Demons themselves
hide their nightmares in his reality,
with the same canvas crescents

like his.
His waist was sturd
thick as war walls
or a boulder’s heart.

His ears are the bridge
and threshold of a tardigrade,
his hands a dog strayed
with anger in newborn cities.

The heart lifts,
by another he floats
living a sentimental life
of the compressed truth

that has frozen and crackled.
The casted leg
pushes sideways to a safe
cold corner.

Who will say ‘man’
to his boy like core?
Who will say ‘smile’
to his twisted face?

And his plank knees,
a board more similar
as a newly painted fence
the cause of the breaking marriage.

In a doll house,
three old hearts and soft body
out of a picture book,
behind the curtains,

and now he hides
old models in my memory.
Using what little he borrowed,
the setting of pieces back in their place,

plastered on the wall
with sugar coated smiles and merigold lies:
with the help of a finger
too snagged itself

on his passing limbs
with the actual weight
of a lost boy,
still trying to be found.