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,
on the back
of your neck
when you haven’t asked them to.