Sometimes you make me smile because you can;
it’s a power I haven’t given to many
and it’s a downfall I have yet to adjust to
and it’s a delicate shower in May when it’s too early to exist
too late to sleep and too vivid to catch.
Sunrises are fitful, bright and dull, with strokes
of bamboo handles glued to natural hair
often sold for quite a lot, and used for little more than
to apply expensive make-up over freckles.
My freckles ¬have sex, absurd orgies dancing on my cheekbones.
My cheekbones can pierce the heart of my lovers;
of their chests, when I try to cuddle them.
My lovers can nestle in the expanse of my hair
(I paint it red, like a sunset and a Bloody Mary)
when the world is real and cruel.
My poetry can go fuck itself, she said to me, and I laughed.
No, you vengeful bitch, you can’t –
let me stop you right there.
Let me stop me right here.
But my darling, wonderful man,
if words were to slide off my pages
off the occasional lazy pixel
into the hands of a carer
they would be mortified to find them mostly empty
void of charisma, or talent, or potential.
Sometimes you make me write for you;
it’s a failure I have yet to adjust to.
A rather good misjudgement, a room with no walls.
My hands, when they swim on your skin
could drown and I would still smile.
Climbing on the entirety of our sleeping forms
I find it hard to breathe.
My poetry is a house with a burnt foundation
paper walls
and a shining roof.
It hides me when I’m sober
and loves me when you won’t.

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