IF YOU REALLY LOVED ME
YOU
WOULD BUY IT FOR ME
The
lungs of a six-year old
Have
a capacity that opera singers would envy.
No,
I tell you, and a fresh round of tears
Lays
siege to the weary night:
YOU
DON’T LOVE ME!
YOU
DON’T LOVE ME!
My
demanding boy-child
This
too is a kind of love:
The
invisible cords with which
I
have bound my hands
Preventing
me from playing God
Or
at least, granting your every wish.
(I’ll apologise to the neighbours tomorrow.)
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