Hair the colour  of sand –

my voice not yet the colour of steel.

Her presence, colder than a stepmother’s breath

behind your ear,

scoring rejection into your head –

‘I don’t like you. I don’t want you.’


I stopped at a dirty café,

the air thick with newspaper print and disappointment.

Papers doubled over, folded into shapes

to wipe grease from the griddle.


A man with a pastoral eye and a gentle harbour

takes the seat next to me,

our ass cheeks sliding on split vinyl.


He gives me a piece of pink thunder that

I squander between my thighs.

But then I feel uneasy,

like when

a stranger


on the back

of your neck

when you haven’t asked them to.

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