Sunday, 28 April 2013

Perfume Bottles




































You want to buy dainty, lacey bras.

You’ve got your perfume bottles
lined up on the shelf above your sink
They’re rose-tinted and empty.

Your voice is raspy
because you’re recovering
from a cold.

Your thighs touch.
They’re always gonna touch
but keep running damnit.

You want to spend your time writing
You’ve got a few tragedies
to which you could lay your hand.

You’ve tried it before.
You’re shit at it. 
Stop trying to write you’re not a writer.

You can’t be a lady.
Just can’t.
You wrote “shit” in a poem that

You wish was filled with
Femininity. Flowing like
Peach silk - a dress you just bought.

Your blue eyes are alright, clear,
Your mermaid hair your mom
Doesn’t like.

It was the one thing you did like.
Jaw too square and still too
round.

Shoulders too wide.
Collar bones too
shallow.

But you could line up
fucking perfume bottles
and feel a little daintier.

Fuck up.