There are sequins sewn
into the hemp of contempt
that your paper eyes
never saw, never wept.

And remember, sweetheart,
there's only so long you can run
before your feet turn to blood
and you drown in your knees.

Trying to bob for the apples
of your father's seeds?
I know you've hoped to plant them
in with me, in my grave,
but they'll only ever grow
on a linoleum stage.

In the evergreen garden of Cosmic Speculation
where we all elide our consonants
and terraform our interpretations.

It helps to hide the shame
from the audience's desultory gaze.
Hide them, sweetheart,
or they'll perforate your fertalizer veins.

You know you'll need them
to imbue yourself in your very own destruction.
You're gonna be grown up someday
and like the hemp and trees and veins
you'll need to find another godly way
to make a paper eye that'll truly, finally see.