You were my first real fan.
Oh, there were girls in short dresses
who batted their eyelashes
when I told them I was an artist
you were the first one to’
know me from nothingness
solely on the merits
of my open words.
You reached across the darkness
with the depths of your curiosity
and were all the more enamored.
And like the moth to the flame
I singed your pretty little wings
and pinned you up with the rest of
This is how beasts like us end.
Not in triumph, but in dust.
I saw the money in your parents,
and the cuts’ along your arms
and I was familiar with the nectar
of your poison.
Were I a boy ten’
you’d be more than enough
to bring me down to me knees.
And I’d rip out my heart willingly,
for you to wear round‘ your pretty
neck as I lay clutching
the open cavity of my chest.
you’re a pleasant memory
to warm me
like the lingering whiskey
in my glass.
And the ice is melting faster
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