I left lavender letters on the pillowcase,
my eyes glittering in the sunrise’s gaze.
There were shadows spying in the door way,
but I had resigned myself to life as a laboured spirit,
so I had accepted it long ago.
The shadows toddled down the hallway behind me,
endlessly emulating the soft sway of my hips,
but never quite getting it,
reaching into the cupboard under my sink,
to search for a pot of paint, about my shade, to go for a swim in.
It made no difference.
I wrote myself in synths and sighs,
immortalising the girl I was last night on a cassette tape,
and the shadows sat at the kitchen table,
until I got sick of it and snapped the tape in two,
ribbons of rarity cascaded to the carpet,
and the shadows wanted it so badly that they launched to the floor,
holding what remained of the cracked shell and torn up insides.
I had become so used to telling people that I was a poisoned apple,
that I forgot to tell them I was cured,
fit for consumption,
keeping up the hostility,
the shadows once again copying me,
until they became so unbearable,
so unbelievably hard to love that even I became appealing by comparison.