Frequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.
Her name has a backbone.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.
The name does not match the face.
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.
She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.
As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.
That ping-pong love.
I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.