There is glitter on the carpet
three days later, three days of
inhalants, huffing hairspray, and
the glitter is like constellations and
shooting stars, the glitter is the
dying will of an ageing supernova.
We haven't been to bed
or left the bed, we have bruises
like the lakes of Canada shaded
on our thighs. The record played out
long ago, it keeps on scratching and
missing the itch.
My retch is the colour of
mutant-turtle trading cards and
we all ache like muscles that forgot
how it felt to be used. Tenderised, like
meat, we pull the curtains
close and carry on.