You and your ideas of luck and things

that sad men sing and empty rooms bleed.

There really wasn’t any need for you to be kind,

and there isn’t much on my mind except your fingertips.

You press them slowly to your lips and to my brain,

and I swore I’d never be the same after it,

after your hand hit and your eyes searched

all round my earth and your orbit.

 

I’m just a refugee

from a wealthy family.

A pessimist hoping for the best.

I don’t know what to do without you

And rain falls on window panes,

and clouds roll over the angry crowds,

thunder sounds over voices loud.

Signs are raised across the lines.

I can’t say what I see

 

He says

“Don’t acknowledge your privilege”

Honestly...

 

Who has use for oxygen?

I don’t even need to breathe.

I have a mouth full of honey

and rows of sharp, sharp teeth.

He said “oh please, you’re obsessed!”

I told him he looked depressed.

He defo didn't like that, no

 

Red tips of fire,

we come to life.

You say I’m sin,

I think you’re right.

Dark words on me,

ink of gold,

sky swirling round my feet.

Soft words, empty meanings,

You tell me what they mean.

And the dreams he seeks are so off-branded,

Lord knows he caught me red-handed.