He’s afraid
that I will hurt him.
I just threw
seven of his antecedents out –
scrunched them
into balls
and hurled them
at the trash bin.
In my fashion
I’m devoted
to their fate –
but so far
every face
I’ve drawn elicits
hate –
each face,
that is,
until this
one.
The one he’s
got.
Now I do not
feel so hot.
I do not like
to kill
my drawings.
It shoves me
off
my fragile
moorings.
So scared,
this
little piece
of art!
He breaks
my heart.
.
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