I think about your old haircut and
I miss muddy torn up shoes;
scuffed canvas, stained laces.
The tote-bag with a badge patchwork
forgotten in your house, now an identically
rigid, faux-leather
handbag. Homogeneous.
Your eyes narrow when I laugh too
hard, at something we used to like. You
wince and turn away,
behind your freshly highlighted hair.
You cut off the last of the
colour you'd begged for. You tell
me you never cared for the
things we used to love, so
I shut my mouth
and grapple with your change.
I wrote you a letter, handwritten and
hand folded, in tea-stained paper
and ****** red ink,
my heart displayed for you. You pinned it
up against your mirror. Sun bleached
and binned. The text message you
returned to me deleted itself last year.
I think about the rips in your tights
and the dirt under your fingernails
and search;
but find manicured perfection masking
any remains. I paint my nails and
mourn the friendship
we had, while you sit down and smile
beside me each morning.
You've polished your gemstones
into mirrors.
Why are you so desperate to ****
the girls we used to be?
This is a messy poem but so are we.
