The arc of your breasts when the arms are outstretched;

your legs enmeshed by a darkness compressed

under thin party dress; the embarrassed flesh

kissed and caressed by an uncertain guest:

you envelop and smother like cancer.  

 

The smirk on the lips and the ice in the eyes;

the hands that induce the involuntary sighs;

the name of the shape I have come to despise.

I’m not sleeping so well, it must be the noise

of these questions I don’t wish to answer.

 

I’m treading the boards as the curtain ascends

and peer at the crowd through a distorted lens,

leaning on props, having slaughtered my friends –

a contemporary tale of blood and revenge.

I’m slashing my way through to the future.

 

I’ll wash off the odour from yesterday’s scars,

redress the stitches and make a fresh start,

but each morning I’m pierced by a poisonous dart –

the rest of the day I spend mending my heart

and at night time I tear out the suture.