Okay so one day I'm 17 and in love with a Xhosa boy whose love is tin packed sardines wrapped in a dozen hallelujahs and the next an Artist who drinks way too much and cheats a whole lot more and I'm back sitting on my bed saying the clicks altogether wrong and telling you you're dead to me , I'm swearing to myself I'll never love another creative again and craving for the way you touched my waisted like old photographs and enveloped your hands into prayer when my shirt came off. I left 6 countries for yours and crawled underground so the border guards wouldn't see me . I loved you in a way that meant my fingerprints turned into lines of photographs and my identity was you , was you, my identity was you.
I hanged myself on paper clips and signed my name on your walls and danced without a care and tied my hair up and laid down on your word and covered canvases with paper and drew sticks of mistakes because my identity was you , my identity was you.