Sunday, 4 December 2011


I opened, at last,
and then you went
taking the things that had cushioned this fall
with you.

And what a silly girl I am
for pretending this wouldn't
hurt me properly after all.

Because now a thousand knives penetrate my skin
and I am a thing
on a list that stretches a mile long.

I am the past. I am a story. I am words.

I am not a heart or a feeling.

With love, Beau xx

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