Dear Wayne, Love, R

"You have a girlfriend, Wayne?
That's really hot. I bet the affection you
Bestow on her is nowhere near as pure
I.e. violent, as that with which you indulge me.
I'm honoured, y'know? I feel like your canvas,
Like the cock you masturbate in privacy,
Away from the world and her needy, slobbery
Vacuum, the inimitable pleasure of onanism
And I'm, like, a fly, on your wall, or a VIP guest
To the theatrical debut of you at your most naked.
I'm honoured, y'know? I'm in love
With the way your dark, craggy wet hair,
Emits dewdrops on the draining skin of my
Chest as you grind your way to orgasm,
In a painter's frenzy. DaVinci carried his
Mona Lisa everywhere, forever. Is my smile
That enigmatic, or is it just 'What The Fuck?'
Whatever, will you carry me forever, everywhere?
Am I the first and best of a rising franchise?
You or me: Who exactly are you loving here?
Can't death be a reciprocal platform for love?
I'm honoured, y'know? That you picked me.
Like, over your generic, dumb, fat whore
Of a girlfriend. That I'm the only one you ever
Told, I mean, about your boy thing. I guess
Your killing me is classic gay self-loathing, right?
Whatever. You look hot in a suit at your trial.
I'm honoured, y'know. To be your suit for the
Evening. How could I top this, I'm thinking,
And you're thinking the same thing,
But you find a way, because you do,
And I'm not here anymore, or anywhere,
And that's the best gift ever. And for that,
You'll carry me with you everywhere, forever.
Your unfinished masterpiece, framed by a guilt
Only ever relieved, briefly, by cheap imitations.
I'm honoured, y'know?"