My hair is not ebony black
Or golden caramel
To make your mouth water
My hair is a crimson flame
A burning red
Passionate fire
like blood fresh from a slaughter

My skin is not gold
Or sunkissed amber
Found by a lucky soul
My skin is pearly white
As the sandy beach
Licked by the powerful tide
But sensitive to the sun
And therefore only seen
At midnight

My eyes are not sapphires
Or deep forest lakes to dive into
My eyes are a darkened blue
like the dizzying midnight sky
Illuminated only by
A plethora of stars right above you

My belief
in any written word
requires
suspension of
disbelief

for every message
unreplied
another message
sends itself
to enquire

when the phone rings
and no one's there
imagination leaps

My problem with meditation
is not a lack of focus
my problem with meditation
is not a lack of visualisation
My problem with meditation
is not an inability to control breathing

My problem with meditation is rather
that the one focus I have
the only images I get
are of bodies, of heat, of heavy breathing
because I cannot close my eyes
without envisioning us.

This memory
once
motivated by curiosity
and lack of judgment
smells
of blood
smells like
the taste
of skin
of ***** and blood
and Purple Rain
sensory delusion
dreams of romance
mixed with faeces and surprise
pain realisation
of naivety
still repeated
humiliation
now finally overcome