I was an emotional fountain,
and your throat was as dry as my sense of humour.
Down you drank,
dank nights made dreamy,
dripping in the stars that I painted on to pained, pressured skies.
You locked the door behind us,
didn't look at me for hours,
tied my hands with your type and read his diaries aloud for days.
He was a dull man,
dirty fingernails and dirty dress shirts.
When you were done,
you laid a shirt on my silk sheets,
shoved earth under my manicure,
and you waited.
You drank as the time ticked by,
I felt tricked by my reflection, and how it was warped by your expectation.
His words wormed onto my worried mind,
and I began to wonder where I was expected to go with all of this.
I cleaned my fingernails,
but you made my water muddy.
I was a vision in soft, satin dresses,
but you shut your eyes,
screaming in intolerable tones until I let the shirt slink around my shoulders.
He'd been in the corner all the time,
taking notes and making memories.
He liked to watch,
and you wanted him to learn.
I'm not even sure that I'm here at all.
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