Angel of the Abyss

heart of a hot glue gun

scalding, sticky

in the shape of a weapon

used by tortured artists

to torture us with art


kissing is quicksand

in an hourglass

with blackout shades

a pot left to boil

in a pipedream

an inverse bolt of lightning

bottled, shaken

on the brink of combustion


love like lemonade

with no sugar

lips puckered, tripping

on a divot

in the yellow brick road

elbow over ass

into crushed catcalls

and cylindrical thinking


this is a piece of a person

faulty, faithless,

but not fake


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