I have blades, she says.
No, not those that cut.
Don’t ask her,
she’ll tell you otherwise.
She tells me when to go
and when to shut.
One might call her controlling.
I don’t.
At least not in front of her.
She conveniently gets cozy
with the switchboard,
how dare she suspect that Ceiling and I
have a thing.
I very well know the song of jealousy
but I prefer not to sing.
I always think that I’ve had enough
I won’ take it anymore now
but whenever she goes up,
I spin around.
Love is a silly thing.
I don’t know how to tell you
and where to start.
It’s like with every patch up
I tell her
“Till short circuit do us part”
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