Panting oxblood tears, I’ve torn a hot cross
Into my leg, and it’s running from fear.
A loss of colour, and it’s no wonder,
I face the cost of selling all this year;
Of telling myself that it’s only ’cause
I’m breaking myself until the new mould
Gets here. Wanting of love, there’s no purple
Cloth that can cover what Un-Want under
Duress tends to thunder as clouds circle;
Veil-piercing shrieks won’t Un-“No.” (t)his truth’s hold.
“I wish I had some company tonight…”
Purged of its eloquence, binges on the
Rhetoric of “…old, but, I look younger;
C’mon, babe, I’ll be in the blue Honda…”
Courage fades into puddles of red light.