Posted in Creative Writing, Writing


I wear bruises for you,

so many bracelets,

black and blue,

up and down my arms,

picturing you,


stray hairs on the pillows,

black roadmaps,

that we race down,

adding more locations every evening.

You don’t mean to spoil me so much.

New jewellery,

every time you touch me.

I discuss our damage,

with the sympathetic silence of the lampshade,

feeling the fantasy,

filling my throat with expensive champagne,

my neck,

decked in the diamonds you created.

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