this summer we are taking care of ourselves first,
pulling out my eyelashes and blowing them in your face.
the wind picks them up and they fly out the window.
probably
my spine is bruised
from a hard floor,
and a
good time.

Summer rolls around,
and we treat ourselves better.
Full of old heat and dust,
finding jumbled numbers,
lost in our bedroom drawers,
interwoven through our fingers,
that were a year or so too late.

And now accepting the narrative,
that we control,
our own soft, rough hands,
that shape every new day.
Knowing that we deserve better,
than the one before.

a silver string quartet
of silky past lovers,

dancing once again,
in the strangers moonlit garden.

our drunken psychedelic impulses

neon - illuminated in the
service station carpark.

soft feet on our soft earth,
and sinners of ****** deviance,

held in the palm of his hand.

to be a spectacle fire frenzy of
one night stands.

the boots are *****,
from stamping the ground.

the wet sound of
rain-stricken earth.
as if we could pay strangers,
such as our therapists;

whom have their own powerlines.

in the dawn sunrise of my kitchen,
i struck wood.
which bled
and revealed itself bone.
standing in naked shock,
as the stark butter knife,
whom i playfully trusted,
had turned its blade.
had i been right to be surprised?
the nature had never hidden itself,
but had always been blatantly there.

the tantalising thought;
the knife was every love that wilted.
warped around the idea of human-like features to characterised metal,
forgetting that i was the one who held it.

spanked awake,
by the red gloves that
haunt my dreams
and fingers me non consentually,
reducing me to ****** objectivity
that later pushes the used body aside,
only to look distainfully at the blood between my legs.

red gloves,
that permeate stagnanate air,
symbolising hyper femininity.
stains the floor, walls and bathroom stall.