As Mascara Runs

Your smile
it beams
as a thousand suns
that blotch out
and fade down
as mascara runs.
I can't allow
such expression
to burn
without me.
Without me.

Your hand
it fits
like a glove
from a store
that millionaires
and billionaires
just adore.
But that shit
shouldn't fit
on the small
of his back. 
What about mine?
What about mine. 

Your bliss
it smells
like a fresh baked pie
that grandma baked
to bring you joy. 
It's sweetness
on his tongue
must taste divine.
But not on mine. 
Not on mine. 

Your eyes
so pure
so honest
so sure
must be ripped out
and stomped on
and blinded
and scorned.
Because they see
what you shouldn't see. 
Please see me. 
Just see me.

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