(no subject)

[nicsta]

years of bottles, and pills and sweaty
offense shedding its tangled webbing
is winding perfectly now neatly around
wooden bobbins.

and the clown was taking off her make-up.

those saturday nights,
where we withered against each other,
shoulders and humour rubbing up and down,

slowly winding down.

what anonymity we shroud
as we ploughed through the night
and into the day,
into the haze, donning sunglasses
involuntary fasting.
shading out the shouts from the back seat.
the immortality, the infactuality

fight or flight,
but somehow she was always right
to go.
dirty dark floors,
dirty dark beds
cushioning wild gnashing heads,
and hearts, right from the start
she was always looking,
for someone to hold her together.

but these people were broken too.
and it was just in the dark of the night that
you couldn’t see the
cracks and green hues