a 3-hour visit to your toll-gate that charges

more than just cash pressing allegations

and compliments not meant for me.  perhaps we both fear 

of talking and the bland taste of a family your

walls incarnadined with the chunlian i sent you

i am no more than the leftovers of festivity

reclining on to a chunk of glue but corners torn

and dilapidated. the characters’ serifs extend beyond the 

edge of the oriental red rebellious and crass

— i am nothing of your standards.

sitting bolt upright as if waiting for my judgment

yet who are you to pronounce my verdict? our stars

never crossed our bias not overturned

you would say don’t try too hard perhaps

wishing for your burdens to be lifted your words

a mortal arrow entailing a trail of thread but never

surpasses it encircling the chateau you fabricated

so meticulously what does it mean to be an

outsider? perchance the mannequin you

cold-shouldered the smut on the floorboard

revelations got us tongue-tied waipo

when can we both mature and confess that

you only love to

hate me.