when you were eighteen and i was fourteen you handed me a blindfold teethed with razors because you say truth is schizophrenic: and angels are anemic and my eyes are sweeter than pomegranate but your poison did not stop at fairytale apples or lazarus or hellish flowerets, it re-mastered left its tar around your marrows.
iii.
when you were twenty and i was sixteen you gave me a Glasgow smile on my tongue: like the pale harlequin so i could bleed solace and sympathetical commiseration through every word when ever you needed me
wheil you emitted a rosary that encircled clavicles, threading it to a hole you manifested inside my sternum because you belived a heart was not neccessary if a doll could love with fingers
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now you are ten years old and i am seven years older you ask me to write a poem about you and artistry but i am waiting for the aestheticist beside the violet car with one ear and debauchery