the top of my foot stings
marked by a sexually depraved cat
and I bleed and drink hot deep red
Laurence baby, I call it.
in our black bodies
clamours constant for attention
we’d show our pink raw pieces to anybody.
my sixth lover
knew in a puddle
grasped my hand
and let the poem
prod under ribs
Hear Bristle on bed sheets
Hear you falling into sleepstate
In breaths slow
our tense body limbs
Aware of its inner sides
as they click and throats close in and out
Aware of our bodies inner and outer and
how we get in between
Interpret those whisper clicks as words
I’m next to you in silent box
In mind it’s silent bed.
Alex Hackett | alexhackett.tumblr.com
Alex Hackett is a writer, image-maker, and trained sandwich maker. She is currently studying for an MFA in Art Space and Nature at Edinburgh College of Art; working with text, image and the edible, in the realms of the natural and the unnatural.