That fiery black
laced all in
one tracing stars on your arm
in chalk and Lego houses
charging at small time business men.
Fighting papier
maché faces trying to
recognise the summer from the
rain. Sold on the black market,
my soul. Oh.
Don’t pretend like
triangles are your favourite
shape when
yesterday
you showed me your
tattoo and it was
less than angular.
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