My hands are patterned by ambitions,

these lines on my skin are wishes,

palms marked like the sky after a shooting star

and shining when they interlace with your fingers,

your skin's wrinkles and crinkles.

The crevices of our skin do not match or meet

the way coloured paths on a map synchronise and intercross,

reaching destinations.

We are separate pieces of meat

but

...

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Call me the doormat,

The infestation of rats,

The ‘oh she ain’t all that’,

Call the kettle black!

Call me the diva, the princess, the moan bag,

The emotional one, oh isn’t it sad?

The hot head who can only nag nag nag,

That period trainwreck – a handful for a lad.

Call me whatever deflects most from what reflects

When you stand by the mirror and boast,

When ...

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