No Paparazzi Please

Please do not photograph me before morning coffee, Mama. Please. I sick with grief because he looked at me again. He look me in the eye. He was up in Mama's painting loft pacing, waiting for that opportune moment of sickening connection. And that one eye that glow like a half moon penetrated mine. Those eyes like lazer beams sneaking through the barricades. I in rage and I have bad dreams tonight. I think I need a blue police box to appear again and ask him who he think he is.