I am here to show you.
My love is an amethyst region,
a sunset reflex in the fountain;
don’t let them coax you away
with the octagon of bloody diamonds—
they crush like ice and they sting.

Don’t let the sponsors of ‘no’
do a number on you.
Don’t let their myriad rejections
deny you speech.

Don’t carry your aborted ghouls with you
in your rucksack stomach.
I’ll carry you.
My love is either a kayak or a canoe,
but smooth, without splinter, and space
for at least two.
I am inclusive; I include you.

But I wish you wouldn’t slog
through the glue.
My glue is chapstick,
I raver, kissing
in the light of neon

Sickly, though I cover
this carriage in menthol,
a eucalyptus-soaked holder,
knowing you cannot cultivate
a sad mouth forever.

The dance ends,
but do not forget, my friend,
to not let them get to you.


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