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El
Poems
Sep 2018
I won't forget how you picked my favourites out the bag and passed them across to me. Love isn't notes and flowers, it's silently selecting my favourite colour sweet and sliding them across to me in the passenger seat
Red skittles
In my clenched fist
Holding on so tightly
That the dye bleeds
Crimson in my palm
I feel myself
Getting heavy at the wrists
As I cling on
No matter how my autonomy seeps
Into your waiting hands
Am I the sweet tang
Of sugar coated lust?
How many other delights
Have you tasted?
Do you crave me?
Written by
El
21/F/London
(21/F/London)
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