Pretty liar car crash

Possibility knocks on my door time and time again.
I heartily welcome them into my abode as a friend long known.
There’s the usual procession in quick succession – tea, coffee, something to eat, stopping by, staying for long.
I’ll do anything, anything to walk their red carpet doused with toffee apple nectar.
But then, before long, whilst my back is turned, Inclusion – its moniker – begins to undress, inch by inch, shivering in lust, trembling in a shawl of insatiable thrall.
The tender smile now smacks with lips communing with the devil, frothing at the mouth with something maniacal. The red room pulsates.

I have been stabbed with the knife used to slice the apple, seeds and acid all.

Because No matter the throbbing red raw marks curled around my calves and the marital bed bedecked with the fabric of sacrifice, the manacles remain screwed shut.

Puckered skin punctured with Swarovski crystals in moulds of red the same luxury shrapnel lodged in the brain but never throwing up glitter confetti only bayonet crystals.

I tumble down

and

down

and

down . . .

It’s a nursery rhyme stewed sour. The moral of the tale? Don’t forget their true colours.

And yet Amnesia drenches me wet every time.

I help Inclusion to redress.

I say don’t forget your coat.

And they lick the sweet, syrupy innocence dripping from the Please Come Again.

And I can’t bring myself to nail shut the letterbox letting through a glut of TripAdvisor conscriptions to the land of Fitting In, to cease asking to even be the stamps on the letters.

Adamantinely seduced, seduced, seduced.

The troll always triumphs.

Oh my, oh my, oh my.