Two-hundred and Forty-four: a poet and a liar

rolling his cigarettes, i drift,
sifting snowflake thoughts into powdered words I can
snort and breathe out into glittery promises.

she would not stop weeping.
her cellophane eyes kept leaking
there was me, holding her hand,
not watching someone stealing a letter from my name.

are you a cop? she said.
no, i’m a poet and a liar.

i let him drop a feel or three
but i stopped him from popping.

instead, we plaited fingertips in the naked darkness
while i spun doubts like records i found in hope’s basement.

we counted the scars on my thigh.
and when he licked the curve of my hipbone,
i kissed a star and it exploded.

come here, kitty, kitty…
posioned milk?
but he’s dangling a different coloured collar.

come here, kitty, kitty.
and i do.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

4 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Forty-four: a poet and a liar”

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