You, with teeth and white boredom,
tangled in my sheets, your fingers
stuffed inside, as though you think
I might enjoy it.
I pretend to be a hollowed-out tree,
bear-furred around the wound, your
profile reminding me of old grievances
rattling around my head like loose teeth.
I hate the coldness of your lips on my
My body sinks back in on itself,
filled up with your whiteness.
You place your fingers on mine
to see how it looks.
I am a marble statue, unresponsive.
You get up and leave quietly, a ghost
in a white sheet. I am savage in my
thoughts, a knife help up to your
Rochelle Roberts is a writer based in London. Her work has been previously published, or is forthcoming with Visual Verse, Merak magazine, Streetcake magazine, Eye Flash Poetry and blood orange. In 2019 she was shortlisted for Streetcake magazine’s Experimental Writing Prize. By day, she works as Assistant Editor for the art publisher Lund Humphries.
Find her at on instagram @rocheller and twitter @rochellerart.