You ask me, where I’m going, I say “Lipgloss” and then I’m back, my lips on yours. I always come back, but you always ask, as if my lips aren’t marked, with your initials.

In the cold light of day, when my cheeks are flushed, full of rage, when my body is weary, unable to pretend to be perfect, when the curtains are open, covers off, with nowhere to hide, he loves me, still.

Coffee in the morning, as i am tearful and unstable, weeping underwater, spending seventy per cent of my shower, slumped against the wall, wailing for you, grateful you are on the other side of the door, so you can’t hear me.