I changed my lipstick three times
ironed my shirt
borrowed my mum’s shoes.
where trichor flown from bitten tongue lands
emnous remnants a toothsome luxury
cthonia induced by friend nor foe alike;
I often find myself at a crossroads
Destined to be forever in the middle until I’ve come to decide which social construct
I wish to identify with
To be jettisoned into space,
disintegrating amongst the silence,
bleached & violated by cosmic tidings,
finally twinkling as stardust within the void.
gossiping stars circling
I have only good intentions to tell
they shoot their way off into the abyss
all is bliss. all is well.