Under photos of Zaragoza and them
her hands grind Moroccan tea
the girl-
with her fences built high
belly button pierced, her
face smelling of honey
and green tea.
She believes in energy and angels
in sweet lavender and Eucalyptus
but not in you.
She’s been to Cambodia and back
in her head-
a pilgrimage scratched into her skull
when her favourite plant dies.
It was from you.
A single beetle is left to fester
roman pottery an ocean on the floor
as she begins to remember-
she has never been to Morocco.
her friends talk of private parts
and all she has is a room-
her wet palms stained with herbs
as she rubs delicately at the bumps
on her head, that disappear
like Elijah did.
One last tug at her crop top
wiping the dark velvet on her sleeve
pretence is not a place she can find
on her small, static planet.
She can be as charming as Venus
but she is sick in her bones-
it was all because of you.


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