I was standing on my stilts
with a line of sight
right to the lumber where your stomach should be.
It helped you mouth monogamous melodies about you and your pride.
I listened.
With my mouth open
but sometimes shut,
eating only the ones I wanted.
But we all know how I feel about food.
And just when I thought I could only shoot lasers of hate from my eyes,
a string of sewn hearts with green grass fired,
burning everyone's haircuts into monks.
Still on my stilts, I saw their faces frown and turn to walk away,
so I trimmed off their toes
to show them how it feels to be left.
All they did was look into their trinket's face,
and cartoon spaghetti some promises.
I want to do it again next weekend.
I want to do it again tomorrow.
Or, maybe, never again.
Let me check just one more time.
Probably never again.
I can't look at my homepage.
I can't touch my dresser.
George hurts.
I swear to God,
or I guess to words,
that I'm never going to do this again.
Resolute because if I ever so much as blink a fancy,
I'm dismissing it as a toy pony,
and I'm allergic to horses.
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