By Bethany Lee, with commentary from Ruth Jones

You want romance. You get a hickey in
a club and a filthy feeling. I can’t
cover what has blossomed under my chin,
like some purple, marbled, primitive plant,
grown from a desire now some three years old.
His neck was so straight, his shoulders so low
as he danced as if puppet strings controlled
him. They caught the moment in a photo.
I saved it on my phone to remember,
to go back three years and say look at this.
You wanted this. Even got his number.
Fading into the jolting kinesis
I didn’t care I had lost everyone,
their honest love had been falsely outdone


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