I shall be that which you adore,
the half you saw, mist in a glass
behind a morning slithering and lost,
black-eyes bold magic
twinned so framelessly; revolted, broken, pisspoor
version of yourself,
a version to be tied to, tried
and tired to the bones. Just you listen, soft
flawless glory; I'm out of tune.
I shall be that which you
destroy, a twin for stealing
and denying you were there, to be a whore
for chastity, for healing
all your hidden doubts.
I shall be that which you abhor,
the virtue missed in lives you
led before the dawn when we got lost to
teach a lesson
in the mirror flinging round reflections of us all.
Past magic eyes
a thousand brightnesses reached through the panes
and knitted into futures wrapped
through visions of a deja-vu.
I shall be this for that,
a subject in your thoughts or
to your whims, affections, a version of you
crushed into powder form for
pleasures and deceits.
I shall be that which you forget,
a missing regret, a dreamt-up
anaesthetic conjured from a lost face
for your changing eyes.
We learnt a lesson no doubt, and reflecting
on our pasts we
reach for the painful conclusion, needles
from the tapestry wrapped tight
in outlines pricking at our sight.
And to be that which you
love as a twin forever,
a whore for hope, for guidance, joy, for healing
all lost chastity, Heaven sent
the devil first.