harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
he's not going to be happy when he undresses me to find my shoulders cherry studded and thighs streaked red as an apple's skin.
it's force of habit — trailing down tenderly from the turrets of your girl's tortured tête-à-tête in the quiet of her bed at night: to see the ceiling come creeping in.
and a touch of ruby under my finger caught the light just right — some nights when i cannot find a friend whose mouth knows the words to soothe the suffocation of my nails, sounding a screen for love, for the separation.
and panic turns my hands to knives gnashing at the edges of my knickers; book spines to bash it out with a necklace pulled tight to set it all right in my skull — the apathy of a dull blade to dissuade me from disillusion; doleful eyes watching the bleeding belly of a navel gazer. and ashes to smoke her out when the point starts to rust —
yet how the habit still hungered under my skin, kept tugging the arc of my brow out for the disquiet of it — and the gaping wound it left wept for a wayward pink pill in the dark to lift me up.
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