you are approved by me, with a lip glossy wax
seal and kissed good night
down in bathroom glass, dressed up in kitten heels, a tatty jumper
and tiny mini skirt, what I like, lash slick, and cloud paint,
steaming frappes in the pouring rain, how romantic, gift wrapped in a secret
velvet crushed corset, blushing red
and natural inches of acrylic taped to my fingers,
all my ink marks, even the
one I got to get over him, the demon, like every other man, another
olympic athlete in your little racing world, it’s sweet how tight you grip
me as you undress me with your tired whites, you say it’s pretty that
I made a butterfly rest on
my left tit, caught it in the garden at 1 am, a strolling thought, pricked
the little wings by noon, it was hardly a child, and I know because
we left the cocoon that day together, wing in needle, blood in hand
clinging to the centre of my small world, a girl’s sole concern lies in her
cradling one grain of salt at a time in her aftercare routine, so picky,
a pristine arrangement of all the mess in her head on the floor,

the mess society pretends to understand and reason to me in a dense
screwed up paper ball, guessing what’s written inside, under all the
folds of clothes, to put me in the right pair of back pockets, tucked away,
to wrap myself around some man’s immaculate arse, jeans that fit the deformity of my beautiful mould, with flares for the anger and her
time of the month, because men fear Japanese invasions, they turn
women into monsters who want to be served for once

I like what I’ve come to know, that I can do things, and deface my
own skin, but who cares what I like because that’s
all a girl can do, and you expect more
let me tell you I love doing things and it makes me,
me, listening to Lana del Rey at 2.46 a.m. in the morning, cutting bangs in
a wasted reflection, into the rattan basket I throw everything else
in, but let me tell you I also read Sylvia Plath and all
the other batshit poetry girls out there, I’m so like other girls,
I wanna be adored then I hold my knees in bed to Morrissey
cry to sleep and then with crystals lying in my bra all I do is do, and
slip my green food from a blender that reminds me of the
cuts made of things in my pencil case, and go
through the insignificant phases of being a girl, and eras, tumble dried
out of your limping washing machine heart I was given, to be
pressed, perfectly straight like your white shirt, no creases, hung up
on a wardrobe cross like the X chromosome picked out by daddy,
to dry and after this cycle is complete I’ll like you
become a thing of use



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