I remember your baggy jumpsuit –
an armour or cocoon, you said,
to keep the uninvited eyes away,
but you wished for the fashion sense of the damned,
the wing in the corner of your eye
that would never stay.
You would pack up Pandora’s suitcase,
with mangy hope still at the bottom of it,
refusing to suffocate under your jeans –
and, by the way,
you packed too many pairs again.
You would wheel it over
to the glamorous streets –
not for the gold, just for the being there.
Big yellow dogs would come
to sniff you hello,
making you grin and forget
what you were about to do –
You were about to light a cigarette,
pretend not to look
at men who are too dashing for you
and call yourself
something worse than invisible.
I wish you could stop your thieving.
I wish you could stop betraying me.