To A Singer

I found needles and thread in that place
In your head where I settled
And let her
Run loose.
This bed is just patterns, stitched
Then unravelled
By you
And your latest excuse.
Maybe I loved you, in pieces, in quarters
Or maybe you fucked me for fun.
What a lovely little life I have, or so they tell me.
And tell me.
And tell me.
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