And you. Everyone else historicised in my lexicon. But you.
On finding the moon above the clouds whilst flying to Atlanta
I couldn’t take me eyes off you, my shining lense in the sky, picturing me from above, knowing how I meet your light with my inexperienced love.
I’ve got my wine and you’ve got your weed
You killed me. Now eat my ashes.
I’m one woman, and this is my show.
Satisfied with my pride.