sawdust doll

 

it’s killing me,

 

this nasty stranglehold

of worship languid,

 

you are lying

 

                              to me

so easy,

 

spattering the blood

of my lungs

across

(each) the    h(c)all)

(never)

(made.)  

 

friends don’t treat friends

this way,

 

no,

they are all cool and relaxed.

they say it’s ok

on days,    when it really isn’t,

but

they mean-

“you are still      my

                                          friend”

 

and then,     there is you,

 

not my held-heartclose,

 

though I thought you were,

                           all clear and cool,

 

so,

three times        my fault,

beyond each

decapitation,

                           you wish me       disseminated,                               but,

 

I am not your poupée de son     

 

I am                 

 

gone to you.