Weak under warm blankets, enjoying the magic of my fingers, softly stroking your hair, lips pressed against your volcanic temple, as I worship my wounded warrior. I hold you close, hearts in chaotic sync, I breathe in time with your sleeping symphony, Mary Seacole of the twenty first century, silently speaking your name, as if…

At birth, I was cursed, laying, lonely in a crib, as darkness descended, on the brightest of days. I could never be alone, but I could never find someone solid, doomed to waste a life, waiting for my welcome to be rescinded (it always is). Flowing dresses, tights that tempt, reminding them of nights when…