trust me
he says
and o I
spill

all the
prettiest
fonts have
the ugliest
names

and the
words milk sour
all future loves
require these
dark times – as

fairy tales don’t
happen without
the boy – no matter
who’s the hero
and he, the dirty man with the syringe,
laughs at me

“You’re happy, thus useless
for all the poetics
drained out of you”

burnt tiles
molding next to
rusty poles of a swing
in a rainy grey day
eyes watering
she feels the prick
and pushes down the
plunger

baby, I’m burning down
the last of my childhood house
and in the night flame,
she says temptingly,
I will find my true love