Anne,
My tender twin,
draw me close and let me suckle upon your swollen breast,
for I am surely your bastard son.
Throw me across the room
and slap me until my face gleams scarlet,
for I have seen you naked,
stripped
to only white flesh
and black typeface.
Sweet Icarus nips at my heels
as my tongue wanders to find you.
It finally locates you in your Cougar,
blood red and shiny,
with vodka in hand,
wearing your mom's fur coat,
dead as the day you were born.
I am as much a part of you
as you are a part of me.
I hate to break the news to you,
but I would make a much better whore
than you ever could have made,
For I would lead my men into rooms with bloodclot wallpaper
and break down their defenses
and ooze their essence out into my hand
and roll out of bed,
leaving them spread-legged and vulnerable,
while you would simply try to pleasure them.
Whores hold a foreign power I seem to possess.
You left me alone back here
with volumes
that I prey upon like a starved tiger
and some sort of sick legacy which I feel I have to fulfill.
