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…