Notes // that night

That night was the certain type of perfect

Where the moon is not yet gone, still cuts like a scythe through the sky

I should have known from the moment he said that Clara was his favourite companion,

That there was never any hope

I was never blown into this world on a leaf,

I fell crashing through it, in a short skirt dressed as a kiss-o-gram dressed as a police officer

I never was an impossible girl, saving worlds and baking soufflés

I am a wasp’s nest

And I have stung too many hands bare and red

To be anything close to what he wanted.

I wanted to tell him that night

When everything was the way he said he had always hoped for

That I hadn’t drunk too much

That he still had his shoes on

That night I was beautiful, and he was never meant to notice.

And he never did.