Tate

by flammeusgladius

Tate

 

 

I do admire a complicated guy–
and, pretty early on, that guy was you.
You dreamt of what you’d done, of what you’d do–
or so you told your shrink. The dead do lie.
The mothers of the dead lie, too. Apply
these rules and you’ll be good at working through
what we now call your issues. Every clue
is there, as loud as any mournful cry.
For Violet (good taste there, Tate!) you fell
as you had never fallen for another.
You drowned then in her sympathetic spell
and found a reason to exist. Oh, brother!
How could she ever lift you out of Hell?
Wrapped in your rubber suit, you’d raped her mother.

 

 

–Tom Riley

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