You have eighties shoulders
Of twill
fish bones.
You speak in rumbling
R.P tones.

I know you've never
forgiven the time
you heard him thump
my dark design
behind the door.
Incestuous, yes,
and so
much more.

I've never been one
for jealousy.

She sat herself upon
your knee
and dipped her fingers in
your tea,
She was more of a boy
Than I'd ever be
and worth ten of the men
that I've had in me.

(Oh, the horror in your masculinity!)

Certain men I've met have said,
whilst reclining heavily on a bed,
that they blame daddy
every time,
(they sit up, take a sip of wine)
and say that hands ****** down
their kecks,
is replacement for arms around
their necks.

But your arms just weren't made for me.
(No, I was made for *** -
Is that what you once said to me?
And ****** and ECT?
Let's agree to disagree.)

You are the marble pallid giant,
Silver statuesque,
Defiant.
I'm the pigeon on your head that
loses footing,
Underfed.

(I want you.

You know that,

Don't you?)

You eye me up,
Your spoiled brat boy,
Like a child in some deflated joy
would finger a scratch
in a favourite
toy.
Hating my madness and sexuality,
hating hating hating
me,
You hate my writing,
Hate my books,
Hate my mother's French good looks.

(And you especially hate
my inherited size.

It affords me
the ability to
surprise
you with glorious,
stars-in-the-eyes

Right

Hooks.)