and what am i meant to say to you when you took my little clay heart, me and all my loves, and shaped it? glazed it, too, that crackle-shard stuff that happens when your outsides cool faster than your insides. they tear apart, then. contents too hot to hold, lawsuit-worthy, overfull. spilling over like anger and so many poems and ink, blotted too late not to leave a stain in your terrible carpet. i was angry, but didn’t know it yet. you were beautiful in your anger and your ennui and the crooked-tooth way you had about work and men and being queer in the way that queer means artist, ever making, perpetual motion machine, until the cables give out on him and her and you and me.