Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue
taking a trip of three steps
down to the palate to tap,
at three,
on the teeth.
Lo. Lee. Ta.

It's not my name.
Not my name.
So don't write it
in all your hopeful letters,
filled with dreams
meant to entice, to entangle --
I know you,
Humbert.
I know you mean to make me ill
with secrecy
and all your faux-innocent lollipop fantasies,
but you will not pick up the story
where he left off.
You are both the same in my mind,
telling me everything you want so desperately
to believe,
and the little girl he left
with her hands full of threats and broken things
loves the way you need her --
she is both the disease
and the antidote.
But she is only a silly little ghost,
sent away to haunt his dreams
when I had to say
that I felt nothing.
No.
Nonono.
Cynically speaking,
I already have one life on my conscience --
I don't think I could handle another.