your voice—musical frission—lured me in. 
Bright. Jovial. Unceasing. 
A succubus to which 
my eyes are open to
despite the dark.
blooming grotesquely before me. 
I don’t care. 

your voice—
musical frission—
lured me in.

Explaining you are agathokakological,
as are the rest of us.
Nothing to run from,
nothing to “fix”
your hours spent in front of the mirror
pure sciamachy. 

You are perfectly imperfect, my dear.