Why did she come back? Why was I so obsessed with impressing her? God, she feels so different now, now that she’s far from my grasp, and I realise that there was more to each dreamy, doomed glance that she gave me. I’m starting to get starstruck by the tricks my mind can play on…

Hey, it’s me, God, boundless black curls, blue scarf bent into a bow, silver chains swinging low, bouncing on my breasts as I take a few steps towards you. She told you I was on the way, a puff of pretty, pink cigarette smoke, and I appeared, like a witchy mermaid, who was never made…

She says that I’m her sapphic sorceress,possessing power in my soft lips and softer thighs.I don’t sleep in a serax haze anymore,because I’m healed, feeling life in real time.I could change,but she takes me as I arrived at her door,never asking any more,as we sleep under peaceful peach lights from heaven.

There are tears on the tube,fuelled by the fear of losing love.That’s what it’s all about,isn’t it?That rush we rip ourselves apart for,that never seems stable enough to stay too long,that’s what it’s all about.She looks in my eyes,my brooding, broken by booze eyes,and she looks, no, she stares, like she has come across something…

Bury me with a glass coffin.No grass and dirt,so my girl can see my bee stung lips (all mine, swear to God) and eternal eyelashes for the rest of time.Let my truth be forever etched in stone.A wayward wife,an unfit mother,too Catholic to swallow,too gay to be a “real” Catholic,a bit too mixed race to…