Quinn


Whisper grey smudges onto me and make me dusty

Dusty like the evening spirals on her mother’s T.V-lit carpet.

Tassels, toussles, a soft hurricane

Bruises left and replaced with denim.






I Prefer to Be Cold


Dust-clumsy

Bought and Sold

Brush-puppy

Turned blue-green mould

Slush-buddy

Dripping wet and soon to be told

Trust-honey

A holly leaf turned 18 years old

Rush-money

Staring hungrily, only to fold

Crush-bunny

I prefer to be cold






Ambulance


Flood me.

With the blue lights, thrown, by colossal sirens

Turning my blood blue.

Brushing the concrete of this swamp,

Flood me.