Innocence woven into cotton, pulled down, stretched and snapped.
Fingers trailing, tracing and leaving flesh branded by hot fingertips.
Fabric forgotten and crumpled on the floor, replaced by a fine coating of goosebumps dressing milky white skin.
Air thickened with sticky, salty secrets, hanging around like a morning fog.
The filtered light through curtains highlights the place where virtue meets experience and the cotton, now misshapen tells a tale.

She sat at the table
Where she nodded and bled,
Blood dripped to her plate
And her dinner turned red.
But nobody noticed
Because they were all fed,
And her posture was straight
And they liked what she said.
So she choked down her dinner
And kept the mood light,
Then cleaned the blood from the carpet
As she bid them goodnight.

She smiled through the unease
And accepted too much
She was eager to please
Took the unwanted touch
Until her skin grew blisters
And she cried out with shame
Too boisterous for Misters
She takes on the blame

I put my journal
in the sealed packing box- Now
inspiration’s struck

My poetry’s dark,
Though the release from writing
Can lighten my soul.

My battered image reflected in your Ray Bans- brand new,
But no one will study the lenses.
The photos on your ‘gram tell a story- not true,
And you’ll never let down your defences.

A gentleman presents for spectators- enraptured,
But when the doors close the screaming is shrill.
You’re a prince and I’m your princess- captured,
And that is what gives you the thrill.

Hard black line
Moving into greys
Growing like a vine
Expanding as it strays
Picking up some colour
As it weaves its way
From one place to another
Through nightfall into day