Her use of colour danced
childlike thoughts across
my bedroom floor.
Don’t sing songs for birds,
she said,
they’re never quite grateful.
But when squids and monsters
plea for praise, hand it out
vigilantly. For they can
get complacent too.
And they do.
Left my corruptibility
fresh in her freezer
just in case she decided to
mummify my innocence,
treat beds like camp outs.
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