All
the other girls have gone.
Outside,
it’s cold. But we’re already in
your
flat, the tinsel serpent winding round
your
yucca plant, and you lean over,
asking
may I kiss you
inappropriately
and
then you’re in,
a
kiss that wakes a violence,
that
won’t leave me
the
way I was before:
we
bridge together on your floor
and
as you scratch my back I know
I’ll
wear this red tattoo for near a month:
the
one you leave behind inside far longer.
* * *
Playing fast and loose with the prompt to write a golden shovel, here inspired by lines from the Tori Amos song 'Cloud on my Tongue'.
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