Over a year, and they still
call it love, when really it was
just thievery and a make-believe romance,
something, so that her ink was not idle
and he could suppress the two lungfuls of shit
and darkness blossoming out of his lipsandeyes
at every little pinprick.
She's cried for him and kissed away
the anger, multiples of multiples of times,
but now she just makes excuses,
attempting to slip away with unscratched skin
and a clear conscience.
She's a cheat.
She will not apologise.