I painted them red,
(read: Clownish)
Cherry-dipped and ripe
For your taking.

I hoped that you'd find them,
A beacon amongst black. And
Worm your way into them -
Warm, wet, writhing.

But I think I was too green, too naive,
So stunted that if you squeezed me -
With heavy hands - I would burst.

When I unveiled you, lover,
Peeled these rented sheets sticking
Sweat to skin,
I half expected to find maggots kissing
Your flesh. And, yes, whilst I could still trace the wound on your shoulder I
Teethed into the night before -
Removing with it the sheath that hid your pink -
You still looked fresh.
There were no flies to lick the berry blood painting your pillow,
There were no bruises rotting your body,
No puckering, shrivelling, pruning.
I ran my hand across your chest and you felt taut
(Like rope),
Your peach fuzz tickled my fingertips.
How could I devour such a pretty thing?
Squeeze you in my stone fist until you exploded,
Leaving behind nothing but your pit and the juice
Dripping down my wrist -
A sweet trail of you.
So I draped the sheet back over your corpse and rinsed myself dry,
And when I checked again you still hadn't decayed.

I want you to see the diamonds strewn across my forehead,
Glossy in light of a sweet, pink sun
And her sweeter, pinker kisses
Upon our faces.
I want you to feel my heat -
Scorching, burning, scalding -
As fingers dance (slowly) atop
Summer-brushed skin
And trip over moles.
I want you to know that roses caress my cheeks
As your hands fumble for a fragile jaw
In and amongst the thorns.

I want you to cure me. Call me
Lovesick
And my stomach will agree.
July fever is fleeting so
Can we make our bed
In linen daisies?
Let the wind carry whatever we wish to hear
Like Chinese whispers?
Can we dream under a bruised sky,
Waiting for pale rays to come
Cradled by white clouds
Hurdling hungry fists?

I think that’s what the doctor prescribed.

This decade,
This mammoth.
Battered thing that never began and may never
End.
Echoes of some far-off bloodshed acted as a fine soundtrack to my adolescence -
The needle ran in circles, scarring and scratching until the blood broke my brain.
It was a knife-edge,
Balancing act.
The fears of yesteryear were never too slow to squeeze my wrist as I ran
Through the fields, whistling against the bellowing wind,
And I fell to the flowers -
Their pollen pitied me.
Purple petals frowned as I giggled until my stomach
Flipped. Uncertain in this hot-cold climate
Wherein the glare of hope didn't outstay her welcome.
Didn't melt my clay too much before it could harden in our tired sun.
The sculpture built on optimism, reinforced by pessimism.

One day I'll have left enough traces of myself
In this world.

I'll have stained one thousand red wine glasses
With carmine.

I'll have laughed so much that my breath
Lays bare on every window.

I'll have painted bathroom tiles with
Stray strands. And I'll have let fresh linen
Lap up sweet perfume. Loved so much that my lips
Ache.

I'll have carved myself a hole in this
Mud (big enough for a village),
And I'll have screamed so loud
That the wind feels like a whisper.

One day my face will be like paper -
Traced with graphite wrinkles.
But I want to leave so much of myself
On this earth
That the rain won't be able to wash me away.

How I wanted to un-
Tangle the dark, wired thorns
Of your brow -
Byronic, sardonic.

I remember how your lips bled chaos
Like a raw wound,
Your words trickling down my chest until
They painted a canvas of red ivory.

I think I fashioned a inky night
Down your throat
With white stars sewn into
The thick, black creases of velvet.

Sunlight streamed tears from
Your parched eyes,
Cleansed them so well that I tried to look into them for
An explanation, an admission.

But I only saw myself.