May 24, 2020
We were sculpting green glades with the flint of our hips on Telegraph Hill.
Two-sing rollies, drinking blood and popping forbidden pills.
Beneath swirling aethers, medieval cathedrals streaming violet flames, impossible voids tearing out of slate white and slate grey, I told you: I’m not like other girls.
London cast sapphire beams across our cheekbones. Like blades frozen in dark blue lakes.
A shard of metallic shadow. Gilded you.
Now: Zero. I’m dribbling crimson from grazed knee caps on Dawson’s Hill.
You call and I flip my phone, gleaming, like an injured statue from the cloisters.
Fighting in perpetuity.
