london's scrapbook.

adults sloppily string long syllables and buzz words into a neat little box, wrapped around a clumsy little package of hair and teeth. we shed our wild skins and put on a pretty mink coat, bleached and synthesised pink. in this coat we are quite snug, and we can practice our data analysis and our technology and our shares. and we won’t talk about the quiet itch of the faux fur around our neck.

but secretly, when we get home, off the city bus

we let this mink drop to the floor and we stretch our backs

Unwrap my cicada wings and let them shiver under your touch

My brow glows blue beneath your electric kiss, uncrumple these paper bag bones

I am blossoming.

My hair is leaves, these limbs are trees - lay me down in this tangle of weeds, and roots. Let me rustle beneath the birches and brambles, wrestle for space with this starling, who builds a nest big enough for me.

I blush rose beneath your glowing blue kiss, envelope me.

There are mountains out there, but I am here, blanketed in crêpe myrtle and love and starling feathers.

Water me, and I might sprout, an extra bloom, pearly grey, like our moon, and I’ll keep it safe and close to my breast.

You can lay your cheek on this collarbone, this paper bag collarbone, and I can wrap lavender braids encircling our wrists.

We are cocooned in this womb, the starling grows the nest and the mountains take the first night watch.