Sini
Your red lips pout,
sodden with smudges
and rotten fruits.
Dressing yourself in doll’s clothes,
wanting to be Saint Lo,
crawling on the bathroom floor
just to feel cheap.
The lace etches delicate marks
across your swollen breasts.
You make sure your hair
is tattered and boy-like,
caressing a pill
in the palm of your hand
You threw me out of Paradise,
and took to suspicion
and the love of two girls
who would hold your hand
like I couldn’t
across an ocean.
But you’re still there,
You are the eyes
I see in the cracking
paintwork of lust,
the budded colour
that drips
from my mouth.
Rebecca Wilson
(Oxford)
(Oxford)
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