you are a series of smoke and
mirrors, an emotional junk bond
where a man once was; or maybe
you were never really there
at all.

words tenuously strung together by
a simulation of humanity, i fell for it
(but not for you). hook line and
sinker seemed simple because you
seemed safe, a lustful port in an
overwhelming nor’easter. not a
sweet boy, not a fuck boy, but a
sad boy; the Much Worse
third thing. vapour and gauze and
blood and bruises. the mess you’ve
left behind before, shrouded in
mystery for a reason.

LA is a small town and you make
it feel even more minute. after all,
misery loves to tell company
to fuck off.

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