Dead locked,
their twin eyes
stung of sleepless tears.
He hated her tattooed,
stained of
promises made on wings,
matching in their Fears,
obvious, like her-ha-ha-ha-laugh.
Of potion yielding boogemen
with travelling vans
that make the black of forgetting
and waking madness too murky
for him to feel anything
but hating her easy.
They both cried
winks of glass
and everything she touched
coiled around her tightly
with attentive gifts.
He knew already.
It was a sharp choice
to blame / each other,
quick, torn strokes
they overhear
late in lone thoughts
blankly searching
for their mirror eyes,
shaking heavy off
their picture frame
lies.
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