I didn't think it to look at you.  
Much like the snap of a crocodile,
your steeltrap caught me,
you had your teeth in me,
had them in long before I quite opened my eyes.  
Only this time, you didn't quite know why.  

You're upright,
and I'm the beautiful witch in the gingerbread house,
isn't that the picture you painted?  
With my rolling holograph of deceit burned through by your mind
– so marvellously acute, that mind of yours –
you thought you knew just how evil I was,
but never stopped to wonder why you knew.  
You made me a beggar,
I begged to differ and I never thought I'd beg someone to see,
but I could only crack the ice a little.
You dug your way through, down into the shards of me,
and understood but little of what you found,
but that's more than could be said by anyone, even me.
Oh but look, you've cut yourself.  Hardly surprising;
no one can touch me like that
and get away with clean hands.  
Perhaps the tang of your own blood
will teach you something I cannot.

I remember you.  Don't think I don't.
That aimless shuffle concealing crystalline intent.  
The questions, marvellously oblique,
that mounted into a damning house of cards.  
And those eyes, such a slow burn there,
misleadingly wicked,
misleadingly soft.

Isn’t it true that as a child,
there was nothing you hated more than puppetry?  
The cruelty of those controlling strings.  The tangled skeins of your mother's mind,
the stumbling mannequin steps of your brother's dance with drugs.
Yet you grew up to be a master of marionettes,
plying those shadow puppets of dead friends,
of fears broken from latency.

Slow burn.  It'll be me burning in a moment.
A hand is reaching to remove my heart, and I don't mean that figuratively.  
My ribs have already been cracked open.  
That's the real reason for these words, I suppose.  
When one's blood weeps, come the secrets as well.  
And you might as well know.  
You may as well hear it from the poisonous lips of the woman herself,
if these are to be my last words.

And despite my orchestral machinations,
all those deaths ushered to their owners by my blithe work—
And despite the robberies you have inflicted upon me,
driving me from that child I most cherish—
I say with the bitterness of serenity,
and clear cool truth,
that you're the only man I've ever loved.