The monsters under my bed
are merely shadows of my shattered mind.
Each night they dance in a trance of moments too late
for she beneath the bed is the curse of deception.
only can you see her
if you look in your reflection.

Her fingertips were stained with pollen
With the vase I bought her with freshly cut
Flowers tainted with prints of butter yellow.
A pinafore wrapped with ribbon around her small waist
a chaste smile fashioning her face for the neighbours of our place.
one look at her and I see a fingersmiths daughter.
a girl who outgrew this ***, this house, this girl the porter.

You ask me to ***** in a light bulb
as if I'm planting seeds to let us grow
but rather than gardens and trees
it's light you want until you leave.

The dolls house was an escape exist masquerading as child's play,
Emerald curtains open for all the neighbours to see.
Gentle, delicate, Miss China lays the table rather than in bed,
Spreads the table cloth rather than her legs.
The tea set lies daintily on the table for when he comes home
When her mother plants him a kiss in the garden to grow.
And watching the car park on the fading lawn
She wonders if window panes feel happiness at all.

She filed her dreams in alphabetical order,
Wiping the dust from her minimalist future.
She boxed them up and piled them high,
Shrinking them to match her thighs
And the looking glass began to lie each night
Telling her the weight of her dreams
Was too heavy to fight.

You asked for the world
So I gave you a mirror
And if I could not say this any clearer,
*darling you are my world
Your gravity pulls me nearer.

I gave you my word,
Wrapped it up in cellophane so it would never lose meaning,
Enveloped in the kitchen draw where you placed for safe keeping.
And now when you read my poems with another preserving your touch
You'll realise you had all my words-
One was not enough.