Most days, i don't know who the victim is
me, for swallowing lies like salt water?
gulping and gasping and choking
but still adamant in my belief of him, of us
was i wrong to overlook his angry love?
probably.
but him, with his blue eyes filled with pain,
could i ever truly blame him
knowing that the promises i made him
were sticky and sweet and un-keepable?
was he wrong for clipping my wings
even when i was happy to be earthbound?
probably.

who is the true victim in this circumstance?
who feels the most shame?
the crippled bird, unable to remember who she was
or the boy who broke her, and in doing so, broke himself.

The man beside me talks in his native tongue,
I hear the accent, broken and beaten out of him yet still,
strong
he is talking of crossings and kindness, a welcome mat on the door of another
country
his coffee skin is spooned like sugar, people either take or leave
it
and the sound of waves crashing over a rubber boat
and the cries of children as icy water hits their not yet weather worn faces
pregnant women rummaging in bins for bread and the skin and bones of men,
beaten, broken, seeking comfort from an unkind face
a border, protected and a land that needs purging, a plague of fear and the man, beside me
who I cannot understand except in his heartbeat and in mine, synchronised organs that know nothing of race, fear and hate that breeds and blossoms like cherry trees. Peeling back skin and language, I hold his hand, as the ashes of the world fall on us all.

Rose petals litter the bed

and where you see beauty
I see only the dead flower

ripped from its roots, dirt clinging to its stem

a pink blossom, a ruddyred thorn

piercing my chest as my heart beats, irregularly

a feeble twitch, a caffeine shake

skin pulled tight, scarred, the wrappings of muscle and blood

kohl and red ochre,
like Cleopatra

(undone)

The age of letting time take its
own, slow course is gone, perhaps
For every hour is rush hour,
Every meal is a quick-bite,
That cup of coffee always instant,
Honking even before the signal goes
from yellow to green, the rule

The age of savouring the moment
to its delicious limit is gone, perhaps
For every flaw is now a breaking point,
Every argument cause for a split-up
Every mismatch provocateur of second thoughts

In the age of waiting being obsolete,
Patience becoming a virtue redundant,
The plain, small joys of life becoming insignificant,
The material replacing the abstract,
The direction of the swipe on a touchscreen
Becoming the decider of the fate of love stories,
I'll never find you, perhaps,
If this world continues to function
Like a real-life dating app