I heard the click, audibly,
In the back of my mind
The minute those words left your fingers
Power down the main circuits
And all that’s left is the slow
Quiet hum of the backup generator.

It isn’t that I care, really,
Who your gloves are
Or how nicely your hands fit
Inside them
It’s really just another mind fuck
Courtesy of dungeons and black glitter
And my own insecurities
About being just another pair of mittens
In your collection.
Though possibly your favorite

At least that’s what I’m telling all the ghosts.


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