Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Tich

I wish I was prettier - said she.
Under the blanket pitched like a tent,
the torchlight pointed straight at her face.
A pale ghost, slightly cold to touch.
She was falling to pieces.
Cracks were opening up
and the world was tumbling
into her like a salty ocean.
The night was mushrooming
on her skin like pestilent clouds.
But she cared not.
She just wanted to be prettier.
For me.