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

I had hoped death was what had awoken me.
Alas, it was my mother,
standind over my soon-to-be
sleeping corpse.
The bitter disappointment traced
her outline in the dark,
as if I had not called to her
hours before, with my hands
around my throat.

playing dress up in my mothers clothes,
was never meant to be ******
at the age of six.
but it’s as if the vogue shoots in her wardrobe were taunts,
that i was to be punished for
the black high stilettos
after all the red lipstick was
essentially asking for it.

cold hatred spawned from flame
burnt by fire
insensitivity as an insult
strangled in canvas
dead by campfire
reputed commission outlining
passing weekdays.

I haven't picked up a pen in a while,
the thought occurring to me only after my lover asks for soft words.
Choking down a sob of quiet remedies and second hand smoke,
the inhalation fills the mind of a previously empty space,
and its comforting whisper,
curls its tendrils into locks of hair and announces its surprise.