Saturday, October 23, 2010

When there are things that are going to hurt you forever

and can't be fixed

what the HELL are you supposed to do?


Midas' touch was cold,
but you're a piece, dear,
aren't you now?
I run my fingertips
over your smooth breast,
then knock with my four knuckles
and it hurts.
Don't mind it, dear;
you look good, anyway.
It only matters how you appear
from far away.
As long as no one touches, it's okay.
You'll be my
trophy love.

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