Good Friday

[cornflake]

I must begin work on losing this image
of me standing before you with bare thighs,
my head tilted left so my hair slips,
rushes in, rushes out, on the rise of my breast;
my arms spread apart, elbows disappearing
as I try to embrace the cloudy neon universe
in your mouth, melting on the white tip of your tongue;
palms turned up and away from my body,
like you are crucifying me; like you are humanising me;
with every touch of skin you fill my shaky outline
up with colours, dyeing me a particular desire,
detailing me with the stars sticking on your fingers
and adding brushstrokes as a shot of sweat
runs down my leg like blood over my hands;
as I try to get rid of this picture of us together,
my youth gushes out of my side.


Hattie Samuel