Before The World Soils Her…

Snow baptises the winter baby, the chalky-white of her gown; an inanimte duplicate of a colourless, unpigmented heart    

Walking, Breathing Paradox.

You make me content but not content enough although my heart fills with joy each time you breathe in my scent as I walk past you on a Sunday morning with my hair glinting in the sunlight that made it through the cracks of our solid passion, but I’m not content enough. Not at all. You make me mad, but I can’t…

cuts (and bruises?)

“make a careful incision” with a blade blunt enough to burn but sharp enough to lacerate your razor-edged tongue