“But the cotton’s alight, dear,
and you’re much too charred to take that test.”
Pencil’s down, time’s up. My answer,
(scrawled in secretion against your stretched out skin)
is the only thing I know I hate to love.
“More sugar with your invisible ink, poppet?”
It’s the kind of stain that can’t be licked away
(in contrast to his wedding cake and her subsequent tears).
Accompanied by saliva transfusion and your lead conclusion,
I’ll bleach this, burned and brittle,
For you. It was all, it was always for you.
“Sweetums, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?”
