i want your fucking sunshine.
and you? what
would you like
for my metamorphic
to be?

shall I be again the seductive saprophyte?
are you so readily attracted by my vampirism?
shall I abuse you to appease
your latent appetites?

good gods; such
brilliantly straight-forward questions.
they aren't very becoming of me,
are they? no. . . .
because while you claimed to crave more than smoke
(some tangible liquid surface, a touchable satisfaction,
as it were) it was
the mystery you fell for,
wasn't it?

wasn't it,
my bubble darling
my tye-dye princess,
my stars and my sky?

what do you want?

i'll give it to you.


i could Hurt you to make you Happy.