Bleed And Weep
She vomits silt and saccharine
and a whole lot of obscenities.
It needs to come out. And it does.
Some of it splashes his shirt,
but not enough. And it’ll wash.
The sticky floor rises up to slap
a graze across her jaw. Spiteful.
Scuffed shoes circle and step over.
Ingrown toenails and blisters spill,
chafing under too tight straps.
She thinks in a minute she’ll move.
That’s when they say she must leave.
Vodka and eyeliner stream proud
to mock those crocodile-girls,
queuing a jittery line of hair flicks.
They clutch their mobiles and point,
while they goo-eye the doorman
who escorts her out.
She takes his arm like prom night.
He picks her off. He doesn’t see
how she was once one of them.
Just walk. Don’t stop. Don’t react.
She wears these armoured scars
like a crushed corsage.
Stares and catcalls burn more
in her back. Pain craves her in.
Dark cars slow and creep.
Her heels stab the pavement.
One is broken. But not lost.
Streetlights gloat down on her:
fake diamond. Strong as wire wool:
they can tear her in their hands,
but she will make their palms
bleed and weep for days.