Prismatic Justice

I tell him I don't know why? 

I tell him to do it anywhere. 

But not so secretly, I know 

where I want him to go

and to stay. 

It's pathetic, the ache.

Houseboys do they really come in 

and then just go? 

I could be like Mr. Young, and just hire

a goddamn maid already. 

If happiness and stability 

cry for it. 

I hang up the phone and know she's right. 

Fireplaces keep you warm. 

Fireworks are pretty for a fucking second. 

Then you have to go home after. 

Hair fucked. 

Heart tampered. 

Houseboy is just a street cracker fizzle anyway. 

Pros & Cons list is not imminent. 

I shouldn't apply the pretty adage 

to that guy anymore. 

He's not marble. 

He's not intricate design for the ongoing condition 

determined instantaneously 

by two drunk twenty-somethings in Indiana. 

Meanwhile, Black Heart is forever sobbing

alone in his closet. 

He's so in love... 

with what? 

My own street cracks?

You stubbed your toe, stop the fucking tears.