Today is a mess.
It is like the day has had the spine ripped out of it with frightening autonomy.
She speaks rapidly, but moves with slow bones reserved for older folk.
Today was all about
burned bones and wet suede.
A love’s labour lost kind of day
that grew kernels of dread
for that bristled foray into the city –
still caught up in festive humour.
On the train, warmth gushes through her thighs – waxy and wet.
She licks her lips.
They have that metallic taste just like last night
and that is why today is a mess.