box of matches
Striking you five times, only to collect brittle crumbs, evidence of your failure.
I told James once that I knew blue eyeshadow didn’t suit me but that it was a thing, a reminder to myself that my face can hold the ugly.
plastic lid of a 2 litre bottle of still water
I’m worried about scraping my tongue when I lick the last drops out of you. You hold more saliva than might be expected.
Thin enough to trust, you rattle under pressure, so I must seat you upon something a little more comfortable.
Sitting on their guest toilet I attempt to avoid your evil gasp, your wretched saccharin exhalation. I don’t dare redirect you.
pink Post-It Note
Layering, you settle one to the other as petals, as regular curled-up blooms, without decay.