You’re the cigarette in my cup of coffee
my manic pixie dream girl
your swirling vortex of sadness only dissipated
by my shining beacon of white boy logic
and the calculated responses 
I’ve been meaning to tell someone — anyone

You are my sick darling
my weak child
and I feed my paternal kink
with succinct poetry about the way the chemo
makes you eyes bulge and your pretty face sag

But your illness is not the main point of our story
It’s the long-winded explanations I give about 
our edgeless universe and its relation to our love 
(it’s unending)

My glass figurine doll
I made you,
I created you
in all my wondrous glory 
but I play the role of the boy,
the vagrant teenage boy
aged seventeen —
old enough for underage sex
but young enough for the YA demographic

Because thirty six is too old for doomed love
and women are only resources
for my self-portraying novels
A.K.A unintelligible drivel