He fucks with my soul
on purpose
and it’s terribly beautiful, like a forgotten handmade lace couch arm sized doily from a bygone era tea stained, singed and smoked black on the edges crumbling and frail abandoned in a spiderweb covered box out of sight still covered in sugar
and I let him fuck with it
on purpose
because I’m fascinated by tragedy like an aging film star, taping up the edges of her face that hide the jowls from gravity tucked painfully under her human hair wig, face powdered and pasted for television but the wrinkles furrowed into her brow still show that she’s worried more than she’s smiled all this time…

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