You mocked desire
like it sprang from mother’s lips.
A Bible verse and ten Hail Marys
(for good measure).
Even slipstreams cross paths,
but we do not and
I am rarely sorry.
Floating upwards is simple.
Feels like emerging from the womb.
I wrote you twelve songs, and
waited underneath a train.
But
Are we ever clean?
You spoke to fill spaces
that were already full.
I sat in the corner and burned my nails.
Remembered why I left.
Lost innocence is a sad fiction,
yet you cling on.
Reading fairytales while
blood still drips from your teeth.