And so, she chose to reveal her heart.
Tore her ribcage door open,
and flinched as she waited for
the rays to spill and burn her up.

Instead, she was stunned to find
that the sun warmed even the darkest corners.
That the dappled glow kissed every sinew,
and she was filled instead with the light.

And then there was evening.

The edge of our estate, a wire fence.  
We ducked under it, Cole's fat neck scraped,
he squealed.  
Older boys sniggered.  

Once buildings grew here,  
it now sprouted vegetation.  
We picked our way through.  
Here we built the world: a haven of ***** mattresses and wooden boards  
holding shaped rocks and bones found somewhere,  
that hint of death.  

Cain was bigger than the rest.  
He liked fire,  
pushed at the mattresses, unsettling dust.  
He picked up a stick and beat down the walls,  
eyes filled with that blaze.

Suddenly sticks flew,  
we thrashed with fury and rage and everything,
at our creation.
Soon our jigsaw walls were waste upon the ground.  
Then there was light.  
Cain's father, passed out, drunk,  
missed the silver lighter his son produced.  
Roaring flame which singed our nostril hairs,  
smelling bonfire for a week after.  

Cain's eyes saw everything.
We stood, in his image,
chests heaving, we looked at what was done.  

I was scolded when I returned home late with sooty skin,
and went to bed  
with tear tracks on red scrubbed cheeks.  

And there was morning.

Snow falls before Spring.  

Ice laughs amidst freezing air:

the sky’s confetti.



Or torn love letters,  

once smuggled under pillow.

Now bitter on tongue.

I love you.  



For the flowers on my bedside.

And the cat videos in my DMs.

A clear Sunday in early May, hitching on the back of your old bike, the sun blinking sluggishly through verdant, street-side trees.  

You locked up against some railings, pushed the door with a jangling bell. Our fingers found each other across the aisles.

The shop smelt of must and lost decades. Dusty sheets threw spectres over looted treasures from long-gone homes.

And the gems we found: two candlesticks winking from the corner at the couple – the final touch to make this thing whole.  

Ten months of us. Too soon to be playing house, playing adults. Bold and brassy, those brave turrets gleamed on our mantle with:

my wooden elephants,  
and your expensive speakers,  
and our broken radio,  
and my loathed incense,  
and your tacky books,  
and our pointless arguments,  
and my guilty frustration,  
and your resentful adoration,  
and our ******* mess.  

Eight months too long, staring at the bold brass and hating them, making them home in boxes labelled Yours and Mine and What a Waste.