by Carrie Walsh

our lips stained
with the ink of
red wine         betray us
as we unspool our
earthen secrets
how the boring blue of
morality and mortality
tangle like vines with
the hair of old lovers tied-up in the bush
you once so lovingly kissed

I missed this  we agree, reminiscing over the honey
in-between my legs
and the effervescent thrill of sex
in woodlands              and our bodies
pressed up against the
red brick of
regional train stations
gasping for pleasure and
gasping our goodbyes

bloody lumps grew
inside of us                 they have nothing to do
with our walled up mutton hearts
I realise the symmetry between us
the ink of our story webbed
us together like clotted blood.
we had bled too much
for too long for it ever to be nothing 
I wonder if we had loved each other differently
would we be in this much pain now?

another night             and your mouth
has become dark and wet
like the ink I write with
and you unspool yourself
in the green of of my bed
the whiskey burns the back
of my throat while you sear me
with poker hot kisses
next time, next time you promise
as I undulate in your arms

I lie awake warm at your side,
with every shift of your sleeping body
I am convinced you   will   leave
and the scream of that fear storms
inside me and speaks for you instead
I can hear the woods splintering
and the synchronicity shattering
I want to curl myself around you
protect us from the storm
but we have bled too much

Carrie Walsh | @walshlette

Carrie Walsh is a London Irish writer of poetry, plays and prose who has recently graduated from Oxford University’s Creative Writing programme. Her plays have been performed at The Pleasance, Southwark Playhouse and The Vaults. Her writing focuses on sexuality and identity. 

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