My devourer,
You, the man I never met,
You, the man you said you were.
The green ruse of your eye
is moving through me
like a snake, losing
its vitreous scales.
So cold, colder than truth
searching for a nest
in the warmth of my veins.
I feel its contortions
against my lips
as I turn in my sleep,
sticky with dreams
of clear skies.
Pleasure always comes
at a cost, it hisses,
then convulses
and sows smiling hooks
onto my skin.
At noon, nothing remains
of that glassy onction
but delusion.
My devourer,
You, the man I never met,
You, the man you said you were,
I spit you out with devotion
into the kitchen sink.
Here you are,
uncoiled, a necklace
of small mirrors
vain as an old photograph.
My deception,
You, the man I truly met
You have lost and, with you,
the weight
of the labyrinthine past.

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